Archive of Our Own

I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but one bug I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin. It’s a thing you don’t want to go wrong over, because one false step and you’re sunk. I mean, if I get right off the mark like an Olympic sprinter, reciting names and events from the top of my head without so much as a by your leave, then I may isolate some of my dear public. You might not have a clue what I’m talking about.

On the other hand, there can’t be anyone not vaguely familiar with the Day of the Undead Reckoning. It’s the kind of thing you pop out from under your rock for and don’t forget for the rest of your puff. Within England and without, the scene is easily set by uttering the name given to that fateful day.

In reporting the bloody case of Bingo Little, my Aunt Dahlia, my valet Jeeves, Mrs Mary Jeeves, self, and a few stray arms and legs, I believe harking back a bit will do pretty fairly, and everyone rolling their eyes and crying ‘old hat!’ can take this opportunity to sort through a crossword, nail some fresh boards to the windows, or what-have-you, and forgive my floater.

I suppose the affair really began the day antecedent, if that’s the word I want, with my chatter with Jeeves and trip to the Drones. Let me marshal my facts, and lay the whole thing crystal.

I woke up to the sight of one sun-kissed Jeeves, warming my hands with a fresh cup of earl-grey and delivering a silver tray of eggs and b. as always. I rose and donned whatever raiment he laid out, as always. I followed him around the flat like a lost duckling, narrating my plans and admiring how his head stuck out at the back, as always. 

And that’s the crux, the as always. 

Our cosy bachelor establishment was perfect, in my humble opinion. Everyday was the same delightful routine; Jeeves is nothing if consistent, and I could never bore of his wise words and finely chiselled features. I was pondering this, turning it over in my mind as I twirled my umbrella by Jeeves’s side, while we made our rounds on the daily shop.

“Jeeves,” I said, watching him hand over a coin to the newspaper boy.

“Yes, sir?”

“You are – what does ‘consternation’ mean?”

“A feeling of terror at something abrupt, sir, if you are referring to the paper headline.”

“I was, yes, and what a ghastly image, Milady’s Boudoir wouldn’t print that – but I mean to say, you are happy, aren’t you?”

Jeeves wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me out from a collision path with a dog-walker and the barking fiend at ankle-height, and I savoured the snug warmth even when he let go again. “I am, sir.”

“Right-ho. You don’t want to go on another educational cruise, or a jaunt to Cannes, or maybe a short stay in the country to bother the local fish?”

I spied the posie-seller on the street corner, and slipped away from Jeeves’s side to grab a simple splash of red, meeting her kind smile with one of my own. I hadn’t much of a clue what it was supposed to cost, so I handed her the last note from my pocket and shimmied back to Jeeves to complete the miraculous feat of strolling backwards, trusting he would guide me along the way, to pop the flower into his buttonhole.

Jeeves caught me by the elbow, spinning me the right way-round again, and kept ahold of it while we walked. Probably didn’t want me attempting such dare-devil manoeuvres again. 

“Sir, has something given you the impression I am discontent?”

“Oh, no, not really,” I beamed with no little geniality. “It’s just– well, you know– a Wooster can worry about these sorts of things. I wouldn’t want you to develop cabin fever and start swinging at people down the street.”

The corner of his lip twitched up, and he turned us into our favourite bakery. “I will inform you, sir, if I am ever at risk.”

He’s terribly reassuring. Another thing to love about Jeeves. Because that’s what it was, as I stood gaping at the display of pastries and breads, glancing at Jeeves’s reflection behind me: ardent and foolish love. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him, if not cheek-to-cheek then arm-to-arm on the street, knee-to-knee on the chesterfield, anything and everything he is willing to offer. I’m not so negligible to assume he could feel the same way; he’s Jeeves after all. Fit to be the next Prime Minister, while I’m not worthy of even being the Prime Minister's secretary, nevermind anything more.

This wasn’t a dawning realisation that day. No, I had long recovered from that first shock of love, like a fall into an icy river in a winter’s frost. It was more of a quick ah, yes thought, as familiar and trivial as acknowledging Charlotte the baker behind the counter, or the scent of dough wavering through the air from the ovens. My heart hardly even stuttered, and I had no sooner hailed the rising warmth in my chest than chosen the two éclairs and baguette I wanted from the display.

Jeeves gave that little distant-mountain-sheep cough to catch Charlotte’s attention. “Two éclairs and a baguette, please.”

See? What a marvel. I hadn’t so much as turned around to the man, and yet he already knew exactly what I desired. I gave him a bright grin as everything was boxed up, clamping down on that ardent admiration before it heated my cheeks in a rather obvious manner.

“Miss Charlotte,” I leaned toward her, “do you have any more of that particularly nice bread? You know, the stuff Jeeves bought last week?”

“Not at the moment, Mr Wooster, but if you pop in tomorrow I’ll have it ready just for you.”

“Awful good of you! Much obliged, Miss Charlotte, much obliged!”

I waved goodbye, taking the box from Jeeves’s hands (and definitely not brushing against his fingers) and stumbling out into the sunlight. The corners of his eyes were crinkled; a certain sign that he is amused by something. Hopefully the prospect of more bread, because he just devoured it last week, hence why I wanted to purchase some more. Jeeves deserves anything and everything he wants, whether it is as simple as a loaf of bread or a shaving of a Woosterian moustache. 

We made it home easy, enjoying our quickly consumed pastries and dropping on the chesterfield for some much-needed rest. Well, I needed it, Jeeves was occupied with dusting the bookshelf. That warm feeling came over me again, watching Jeeves move about the flat with a gentleness that ought to be impossible with such broad shoulders, and I took the time to poke and prod at it.

Jeeves is a great many wonderful things, as I have sung time and time again, though I consider it one of my gentlemanly codes to never invoke his generous wrath again. Blackmail, bicycle rides, Mickey Finns – he’s a veritable master of vengeance. He might be up for a spot of breaking-and-entering or impersonating a police officer from time to time, but I would not like to test the waters on how he’d take a fellow like me confessing some improper feelings.

And where would confessions get me? Uprooting the bachelor establishment? Upsetting our tranquil normalcy? Upending, if I may employ another up-word, our perfect routine with something as out of place as a ridiculous divine attachment? I may as well wake up in the middle of the night, or hurl my brandy and soda against the wall before it even passes my lips – totally preposterous suggestions, of course. ‘Tis better for everyone that I keep it all bubbling inside my chest until the end of time.

But then, nobody could have predicted the Undead Reckoning. Fat lot we knew.

[]

The evening passed with little lustre. Jeeves and I went about our daily life – self playing the piano, reading a spine-tingler, answering the telephone and hanging up when it was Bingo; Jeeves shining the photo-frames, refilling the teapot, flicking through an improving tome. 

It wasn’t until supper that anything worth noting happened.

“Jeeves,” I called out, plonking down the receiver, “that was your mother on the ‘phone, don’t you know.”

The man himself stuck his head out the kitchen door in an incredibly formal, feudal manner. “My mother, sir?”

“Yes, the one and only Mrs Mary Jeeves. She wants to know what time you’ll be over tomorrow.”

“Sir–”

“Of course you can go, you needn’t bother asking me.”

“Thank you, sir. My mother will be greatly appreciative of your kindness.” 

I smiled, wandering over to the kitchen to find him in the midst of silver-polishing. “Really? I would accept your gratitude in the form of meeting your mother, if you would like to know.”

Silence. Except for the silver. The sounds of it clinking, of course, not that it had anything to say. This was a battle I would never be winning, but it’s almost comical now to try him high. I do believe banjoleles and white mess-jackets have shown me where his limit is, so I never fear any sort of cruel retribution, beyond a certain look that cuts a fellow to the quick. 

“I would not take the liberty to presume, sir.”

He kept his gaze on the silver. I couldn’t help but giggle. “Jeeves, you’ve met the Wooster clan – the good, the bad, and the dragon – there’s far too many of them. I won’t steal your mother, you needn’t worry about that.”

Jeeves’s eyebrow twitched. “‘All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.’”

“Where’s that from?”

“I could not say, sir,” he said, a hesitance in his tone.

“It beats me how you think up those things. I suppose I’ll let this pass for now, but it must be known that one day I shall meet your mother, old thing, and it will not be the end of the world.”

This Mary Jeeves was an elusive figure; all her son’s doing, as you may expect, because if I had my way, she’d be up for Drones membership by now. I would really rather love to meet the woman who created the light of the Wooster life, but we can’t always have everything, as I well know. I do not want to upset our slice of domestic heaven, Jeeves does not want to disturb the feudal boundaries. The craving grows on me, but I have more than enough experience in locking that sort of rumminess up inside my heart and throwing away the proverbial key.

“Will you be staying in for dinner, sir?”

He glanced up at me, all innocent facade and shiny glimmer in the eyes, like he knew I would melt at his bare request, and I let out a short sigh.

“No, I think I’ll pop over to the Drones. Don’t expect me home too early, old thing; no doubt Bingo has an earful to give me about Rosie’s latest book that will last until the early hours.”

Jeeves’s mouth almost twitched into a smile, but those are reserved only for special occasions. “Very good, sir. I will prepare a relieving tonic for the next morning.”

My cheeks reddened with lovelight. “You’re a saint, Jeeves.”

“Thank you, sir.”

[]

I don’t remember much of that night. From the morning after, I dare say it was one of revelry and gay cheer, with a few broken glasses and bread rolls thrown in for good measure. I vaguely recall musing aloud to the chaps about how much I love Jeeves, but that’s pretty par for the course, I doubt they reacted with anything other than astute nods.

No, what I really, really remember was stumbling through the London streets in the dead of night, hooting with laughter at the other barely-coherent drunks and belting out some music hall tunes with Bingo, only to part with him at Berkeley Mansions. I’m very clear on that last part, I can picture it shot for shot in my mind’s eye.

So, naturally, I blinked to awareness the next morning, the sun poking through the curtains just to burn out my pupils, to find a Richard Little-shaped lump curled up under my covers.

His clothes reeked of spilled whiskey, though he at least had the decency to take off his jacket before invading my mattress. I thought about kicking him, but any movement sent tiny tap-dancing Roderick Spodes digging into my skull with metal spades. Lord knows if my old chum even remembered where he was, latched onto the Wooster arm like a purring cat. 

“Bingo.”

“Mm.”

“Bingo.”

“Mm?”

“Check the bedside table.”

“Mm!”

“Bingo! The bedside table, you hopeless parasite.”

There was another grump from my bed-invader, then shuffling of the sheets, before the loud poof of his fathead hitting the pillow again. 

“Well? Anything on it?”

He said something that might’ve been “a glass,” or equally “you’re an ass.” The details got muffled by the duvet wrapped around his face.

I forced myself upright, regretting it as I did, to find that, yes, Jeeves was the most perfect man alive and had left a couple of liquid restorations and a note. I browsed it as my brain was blown up with a land mine and pieced back together by a dove, and it was a neat way of writing that he had biffed off to visit his mother while we sloths still slumbered, and that the kettle was boiled if Mr Little and I wanted tea.

Now half-alive and stumbling, I brushed down my shirt, not up to changing despite the stubborn wrinkles, and re-did my tie, looking like a Scout’s attempt to earn some complicated knot-tying badge instead of an actual respectable Windsor. Poor Jeeves would likely break down if he saw this particular ensemble, but I shimmied out to the living room nonetheless. 

“Want anything from the shop?” I quietly shouted to Bingo.

I shouldn’t have asked, really. I mean, his discarded jacket was just sitting on the carpet, dumped there without concern, waiting for me to trip on it. And I did! How the devil does he always end up sneaking into my bed when we have a guest room? Why the devil is he even in my flat?

Bingo’s tired voice floated out as I ran a hand through my hair, trying to tame it into something that hadn’t been dragged through a bush backward. “Brandy.”

“When I come back, your jacket better be hung up nicely! You’re a guest, chump!”

“Mm!”

I don’t know if you have ever had the experience of ambling through the streets with a morning head, but I can tell you with perfect certainty that it’s a form of torture which an angel from heaven itself could not stand. Buses whizz by with clatters and rattles, businessmen with briefcases converse at deafening volumes about stocks and ink, Pekingese yap at any feet that happens to pass them by. It’s an absolute tornado of sound to brave on your own.

Which is why I really should have clocked that things weren’t all boomps-a-daisy in the metrop. I dragged myself down the footpath, chin lowered from the bright sky, and I didn’t bump into anyone. I don’t mean bump as in met and had an amiable chat, I do mean literally. Not even a shoulder brush and an apology.

The newspaper boy’s voice didn’t carry in the air, which was rather odd, and when I actually reached his station there wasn’t even a fresh stack out, the whole thing abandoned like the wind had swept all the papers away. Hell, the posey-seller’s basket was strewn across the ground, red roses splattered everywhere, and I wondered just how late in the day it was that I had missed everyone before waking up. 

The door to the bakery hung open, clanking against the wall, and I thanked the forces of Fate for the disappearance of the usual queue. That was the only thing to smile about, though. No reviving smell of fresh goods wafted in the air, no happy chatter from the back, no pastries glowing behind the glass display. Really, the only thing obvious was a loaf of bread neatly wrapped up, a card reading ‘for Mr Wooster’ attached. My bread! Or, rather, Jeeves’s bread! It was cooled now, probably because Charlotte makes these things at the crack of dawn, and had a stain of strawberry jam on the white paper, but I grinned all the same.

I hoked through my jacket, leaning a hip on the counter and counting the few loose coins I found. 

“Charlotte? Do you have any éclairs?”

A tinny radio emanated from somewhere, but I couldn’t make out what the reporter fellow said. 

“Charlotte, old girl?”

My stomach growled.
“Well, I owe you about… two pence – Jeeves has my wallet, you know how he is. Thank you for the bread!”

I stumbled out into the street. Nothing. Silence. Nothing but silence. Now up to this point, as you will doubtless agree, what you might call a blind harmony had prevailed. Looking back on it, with all my retrospective knowledge, I should probably have taken note of the various groaning figures blotting the landscape, the shattered shop fronts, the pigeon I realise now was actually a severed foot in a leather shoe, but in the mo my entire focus was ensconcing myself back in the humble abode with a slice of marmalade toast and holding out for Jeeves’s return. Oh, and shoving Bingo out on his proverbial, that was on the burner too. 

But at this juncture, I regret to say, there was an unpleasant bump in the road. The genre suddenly changed, the storm clouds began to gather, and a jarring note came bounding on the scene. I have known this to happen before in the Wooster home, but never to happen on the Wooster doorstep.

The lift was engaged in Berkeley Mansions, so I toddled up the stairs with the bread under my arm, the other picking sleep out of my eye, to bump into Bingo poking his noggin out the front door. He stared, goggled even, at the lift, as if he were a Victorian orphan suddenly transported to this shiny, advanced age. 

“...Well, out of the way then,” I said, gesturing for him to let me into my own bally home.

Bingo furrowed his brow. “Bertie, wait for the lift to open.”

“Why? Literally why?”

“Just wait. There’s a girl in there.”

“Likely place for her to be.”

“No, Bertie, not– she’s– it’s so strange!”

“Listen here, I’m starved and I’m exhausted and I really don’t have the patience for another one of your infatuations–”

He pounced on my shoulders and whirled me around to gape as the lift creaked to a halt with a ding! I saw what he meant. Standing there, back turned to us, was a woman. 

You may think this is perfectly ordinary. Dear reader, I assure you it was anything but. She did not move, as is customary when a lift jolts to your floor, I trust many of you know this.

Rather, she hit her head against the wall, and the lift dinged! and rolled back downwards, out of sight. 

I glanced at Bingo. He shrugged at me. We stood there, glancing and shrugging until the lift reappeared not moments later.

Ding!

And, faith, there she stood again. Her feet shuffled, like she was trying to move further into the cramped box, and she whacked her lemon with an awful crack until the whole show repeated. 

“Good lord,” Bingo uttered, “she’s three sheets to the wind!”

I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s not everyday you meet someone so out of their senses with drink that they bounce up and down in a lift for hours on end. Nobody has greater respect for scundering affairs when positively tight than self; I’ve been known to ride a bicycle as bare as the day I was born, or nick a policeman’s helmet if I’m especially confident. Still, I like to think I’m above getting stuck in a lift like a worm in a patch of bog.

“We ought to help her out,” I said.

“Yes, that’s pretty fair.”

“‘Tis the preux thing to do.”

“Does she live here?” Bingo asked.

“Not on this floor, no. There’s only old Mrs Cravensworth and her bitey Pomerarian.”

“We could pop her in the guest room till she sobers up?”

“Oh, and thank God you thought ahead and didn’t sleep in it last night. Your astute prophecies always impress me.”

“Bertie, being bitter will get us nowhere–”

Ding!

There was nothing doing. With a final giggle, Bingo and I edged forward, dragging the cage-door open and examining the poor lady.

“Can we help you, miss?”

She groaned. Bingo hid his grinning face behind my back, whispering, “How drunk is she?”

I slapped him away. “Are you well? Do you want a glass of water, perhaps?”

You understand my hesitancy. Usually, in situations such as these, when I try to play the helpful gentleman, I end up with a fiancé for my trouble. 

I needn't have worried. The girl bumbled around, and a scarlet gash covered the entire bottom of her face, if you could call it that. Her eyes, glassy and grey, bored into us, like a Great White on the prowl. She staggered forward, all the grace of a marionette with loose strings, and Bingo and I hit the wall, wide-eyed and gaping.

“Christ!” 

An abundance of screams ran through my noggin, none of them particularly helpful. Some long-lost sensible part of me wondered if she wasn’t trying to steal my bread, which really wouldn’t do. So, I reacted how any rational person would. I bashed her in the knees with a strong foot before she could hobble any closer, and she collapsed back with a crash, folding in on herself as if her bones were nothing but wet paper-mache. She hissed like a peevish swan, clawing upright again, just managing to hold herself up by the cage-door when the lift sprung back to life, snapping shut and hurtling down to hell. The girl went with. Most of the girl went with. 

Stuck in the curling iron bars, pale and contorted and dripping with blood, was her arm. Just snapped in half, dangling there all twig-like.

Rummy, you’ll admit. Bingo and I didn’t breathe, I could feel his entire body trembling like an aspen leaf against mine. Slowly, for fear of startling Fate into hurling something else at us, we shimmied along the wall into my flat, only looking at the other when the arm was just out of view.

“...Do you think she’s dead?” Bingo asked.

“...I mean, she must be losing an awful lot of blood.”

“People lose limbs all the time, they’re still kicking.”

“...She hadn’t even a chin, Bingo.”

“Lord!” He leaped into the air, the frenzy suddenly come upon him. “What do we do? There’s a maybe-dead definitely-armless girl in the lift!”

I ran a hand down my face, hoping this might all prove to be a terrible hangover nightmare in the early dawn. “I’ll ask Jeeves!”

“Oh, genius!”

It took me a moment, but my heart sank to my heels. “...Jeeves isn’t here.”

Bingo took it like a strike from a blunt instrument. “He must be! He’s always here! He’s always with you!”

“He’s at his mother’s!”

“Blast it! Blast it, blast it, blast it! What do we do?”

Ding!

Bingo froze. We Woosters are made of stern stuff, though it crumbled to ash the second I heard the drag of shoes and that tell-tale groan. Closer, and closer, and closer. But she couldn’t get in the flat, could she? We’re locked up tight, perfectly and utterly safe.

I couldn’t bear to look. It was one of those things where you sort of pray that maybe if you don’t acknowledge it, it won’t be true. 

It did us no good, because I hadn’t shut the door. From his eyebrows stuck to his hairline, Bingo hadn’t either.

It creaked open. In staggered our maybe-dead and definitely-armless antagonist.

Despite the grievance of one of her pins being completely detached and waving from outside, the girl (if you can call her that) did not let it hinder her. The small relief was that her rotten limbs functioned with all the speed and grace of an elderly, stiff, cadaverous donkey. Every inch of movement drew a grunt of effort, her grey eyes fixed to us with a determination that her corpse-ish body could not meet. Scratch the -ish, even the casual observer without a medical guide on hand could diagnose that she very much was a corpse, no -ish about it. 

By the time Bingo and I recovered from our paralysed terror, she hadn’t so much as tottered past the hat-stand. It did little to calm us, but at the very least we had time to scramble like headless chickens.

“What the devil do we do?” 

Bingo blanched at the tortoise-paced trespasser, then, in a feverish manner he hasn’t displayed since Malvern House, yanked an objet d’arte from my bookshelf and lobbed with a nasty over-arm. 

It hit the girl right on the beak, and she blinked. The thing hadn’t even hit the floor with a thud before she was right back to her usual stumbling.

“Well,” I said, deeply impressed by the man’s initiative, “that actually almost worked.”

Bingo gave a hollow laugh. “Any other ideas?”

I looked to the loaf of bread still tucked in my arms, and set it down upon a shelf a careful distance away. We’ve been pals for years, Bingo and I, so it took less than a raised eyebrow to get my message across.

We sprung into action, like whippets out the gate. We hurled books, little porcelain figures, trinkets, vases that Jeeves liked, glass heirlooms, vases that Jeeves never liked but tolerated, travel souvenirs – positively everything we could get our hands on until our fingers fell upon emptiness, not even a layer of dust. They bounced off the girl with thuds and cracks and thwacks; Bingo managed to catch her one in the eye, which astonished me considering that his darts skills are shoddy on the best of days, but nothing slowed her stutter forward. 

We were up against the wall – quite literally. A photo-frame on said wall was digging into my shoulder, but I didn’t want to flinch for fear of the creature closing in. It was thus, like a jab of iron will, that a brilliant idea came over me.

I swung around, examining the guilty photo and finding it to be a pretty capture of the New York skyline, so I yanked it from the wall and spun it at our target post-haste. Back in my school-days, when we were forced to do such horrendous activities like summer athletics, I always sequestered myself at any sport that did not involve running. Javelin, shot put, and most relevantly, discus. What I’m working round to is that this particular muscle-memory took over as I propelled that photo-frame through the air, flying in a beautiful arch that would have even the Greeks seething with envy, and it whalloped the stumbling girl right on the temple.

She paused. I held my breath. Her noggin flicked around, as if trying to bustle away a buzzing fly. Bingo clutched my arm, gaping at her. 

And she stepped toward us again.

“Damn!” Bingo cried, turning his miffed attitude to the photo-frames stuck to my wall. “Let’s throw them all, what other choice do we have?”

I swatted his hand away. “No! No, some of these are precious!”

He plucked a picture of Aunt Agatha off the wall, raising an eyebrow. 

I tutted. “I said some.”

He chucked it, and the glass shattered against the girl’s forehead like it struck a brick wall. She gave a groan, wiping at her now glass-sprinkled eyes with her single attached hand, so we considered this just the ticket to finally incapacitate, as Jeeves would say, our intruder.

“What about this one?”

“No, no– that’s Angie and me! Look how cute we were!”

“Oh, this!”

“I think that one’s rather lovely.”

“I can get you another photo of my wedding, I ordered hundreds of prints.”

“Well, as you like it.”

He hurled. It hit her shoulder. We continued.

“Jeeves, Jeeves, Dahlia – oh, Oxford! We can lose the Oxford, we see all the important faces at the club anyway.”

“Go on, I’ve got a postcard we can chuck.”

Together, we launched. 

Clunk! 

Clunk!

Two hits, right in the stomach.

“Do you really need all these photos of weddings? You don’t even like them!”

“I do like them! So long as I’m not the groom. And that one’s special, that’s my sister’s wedding.”

“Oh, and mine wasn’t?”

“You told me–!”

“I’m putting it back, I’m putting it back, good Lord. Here, another Agatha.”

Shatter!

“Dash it, you broke my bloody window! You call that throwing? Was the gross, bleeding-all-over-my- carpet creature not a wide enough target, perchance?”

“Bertie, shut it or I’ll let her rip you limb from limb in a single blow! Pass me that watercolour landscape!”

Bang!

I regret to say that a slight hitch in our brilliant plan arose, which no doubt you can infer with a minute’s thought. The going was fundamentally sound, striking our intended spot with considerable marksmanship time and time again, but all candles burn out. Cocktail glasses empty. The morning plate of eggs and b. is eventually scraped clean. What I mean to say is, we ran out of photo-frames, and the undead girl showed no signs of slowing. 

The sitch became downright perilous. With all of the Wooster pride, summoning that calm, quiet courage which makes men do desperate deeds with careless smiles, I did what I had to. I lunged at her.

We scuffled, and she appeared to be entirely occupied not with obliterating my bones or tearing my onion from my neck, but sinking her decaying teeth into my throat. Or, really, any part she could grasp; the throat simply made for the most vulnerable area, what with my collar not quite covering it. I threw her against the side-table, sending the poor wood clattering over, but she wobbled upright again, gnashing and biting so close that her cold groan trailed along my skin like an unpleasant winter’s wind.

Thinking quicker than I have ever done in my puff, I dodged to the side, scrambling over the carpet, and something miraculous occurred. 

Just as I tripped backwards, watching with wide eyes as the murderous creature lurched my way, she caught in foot in none other than Bingo’s damn jacket, laying on the floor in wait, and went flying across the room. She wobbled and crashed into table after chesterfield after piano, unable to regain any semblance of balance with her lopsided limbs. Then, as if Fate had finally shined upon the Woosters, she tumbled head-first out the broken window.

We’re on the third floor, you know. Never really thought much of it until now, as I counted the seconds before the loud thud echoed up. The following silence jarred on me.

I dropped to the floor, gasping like an overboard sailor who’s crawled onto a distant shore. A soft breeze brushed the curtains, tinkling some shards of glass, and all I could make out was Bingo’s accordion-like breath – he’s asthmatic; he sounds a little wheezy when too excited. Or frantic. He was certainly one or the other here.

After a minute or five of recovery, sewing the Wooster nerves back together and gagging at the stains left on my jacket, I stacked the old bones upright and finally shut the damn door. And locked it, for added reassurance. I wasn’t that worried about the defenestrated gal (that means biffing it out a window, don’t you know. Jeeves taught me that) knocking the door down, because even the strongest of soldiers would give up on the idea of crawling with a solo arm up the three flights of stairs, but heaven knows what else could be lurking and stalking in the apartments of Berkeley Mansions.

My next move was to snatch up the telephone and ring every single number written in my address book, beginning with the one and only Jeeves. Well, I did try the constabulary first, but the operator was asleep at her desk and the line only beeped before ringing off. 

It is well-documented that I do not exactly welcome telegrams with open arms, and have been known to ignore a chiming ‘phone rather than risk an auntly screed, yet that day, listening to the empty line over and over and over again, I would have celebrated with champagne and fireworks had a communication from Aunt Agatha flew through the window on the back of a pigeon.

While I was busy dialling and redialling with the fervour of a monkey at a typewriter, Bingo shuffled into the kitchen and emerged again with cups of tea and a jar of marmalade. 

“Any luck?”

“None,” I sighed. “I tried Jeeves’s mother, Aunt Dahlia, all of the Drones – everything’s off, like the entire county’s had its wires snipped.”

Bingo twisted open the marmalade jar and stuck an entire spoonful in his mouth. “Wha-”

“Don’t blubber with food in your mouth, you loutish tapeworm.”

I dropped on the chesterfield next to him, taking my own spoon and digging into the marmalade too (I can see your raised eyebrow, Jeeves, and I contend it – didn’t you read about the morning I had? I’m allowed to forgo the usual ritual of toast). 

“I refuse to believe,” Bingo continued after a moment, “that Jeeves has a mother.”

I sympathised with his point. “He feels one of a kind, what?”

“Exactly, yes. I mean, are there a flock of Jeeves out there, all with a brain like him, running the country when we aren’t looking?”

“I’m just glad my Jeeves enjoys darning socks, for whatever reason. I shouldn’t know what I’d do if he suddenly had the notion to become the king’s advisor. Nevertheless, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say.”

Swallowing another spoonful of marmalade, I lifted the cup of tea Bingo so wisely made. I don’t know how acquainted you all are with the fine art of crafting a cup of tea, so I shall lay it out here:

Begin by boiling the kettle.

I won’t bother with the further steps, because Bingo fell at the first hurdle. It was cold. Not tepid, not forgotten for a little too long at your elbow and now it’s a disappointing temp. Arctic cold. My immediate imitation was that Bingo had just lifted the kettle Jeeves had boiled several hours earlier, and that sounds like just the blighter’s ticket. I mean to say, it was practically pond water, not fit for man nor beast nor unliving creature, and I spat it back into the cup at instant.

“I should have let her eat you,” I muttered.

Bingo glanced at me with a marmalade spoon hanging out of his gob, furrowing his brow. Just as I was ready to fling the cold leaf-water in his map, the telephone screeched.

It was a miracle! I nearly jolted out of my seat, my skull hitting the ceiling for definite, and I scrambled over like a two-year racehorse to pick it up.

“Hello hello?”

“Ah, you’ve survived then, my revolting young blot!”

You can gather who it was from the overly friendly greeting, no doubt. The relief, as you may well imagine, was stupendous. My spirits leaped with joy at the hearty voice of my good and deserving aunt, trusting her to shed some light on this miserable business.

“Aunt D, are you all right? There’s something rather odd happening round my way.”

She gave a crackling laugh, so loud I had to hold the speaker from my ear. “Oh, I’m spiffing. Tom’s a bit peaky, but other than that I have everything under an iron grip, Bertie. How’s the apocalypse treating my two favourite nephews?”

“Well, Jeeves isn’t here.”

“What?” she squawked. “Lord love a duck, he abandons you at this biblical hour? Why, I ought to shoot him right through the neck–”

“No– wh– he’s at his mother’s! Why is that your first instinct? To shoot him?”

Bingo gasped from his perch. “She wants to shoot Jeeves?”

I shook the noggin at him, but Aunt Dahlia’s loud voice echoed through the telephone. “Who’s that? You haven’t befriended one of the creatures, have you, young hound?”

“Never fear! It’s only Bingo.”

“Hello Mrs Travers!” he called out, grinning like she was just across the room.

Aunt D tutted, and I squashed the speaker against my cheek to muffle her. “Richard’s there? You may as well have befriended one. Anyway, I just called to check how you’re shaping up. No bites? No bruises?”

“We Woosters are made of stern stuff, you know. How the hell did you even get connected? I dialled you about a hundred times!”

“It was rough business, Bertie. May you never know what a pain in the proverbial it is convincing the corpse of an operator to stick the line in the right spot – I was chatting to half the damn country before you.”

“Good of you to brave through it.”

“Yes, and to talk to you, of all people. I–” A loud bang shot through the line, followed by cries and shouts and swears that would put a sailor to shame. “Better go, something’s come up! Remember to bash them in their fatheads! Love you!”

There was a final shrill scream, and the line clicked off. 

[]

You never truly understand how deeply Fate has it out for you until you live through an apocalyptic event. I mean to say, all the good dramas we tucked into at school, like the Shakespeare and the Thespis, had the characters committing some grand mistake that would lead to their tragic demise. You can’t put on Macbeth and just skip past all the murder and witches until the final battle, can you? Wouldn’t make any sense, and hardly worth the price of the ticket and taxi. 

What I’m working round to is that, unlike these heroes of old, I was innocent to this merciless, unrelenting tirade of tripe. Bertram Wooster, who hadn’t so much as blackmailed anyone for months now, was up against one damn thing after another, and melancholy, as I once heard Jeeves put it, was marking me as her own.

Dahlia’s parting words still gnawed in my bosom as I paced along the carpet, trying to think up a scheme to fish us from this soup. Bingo agreed that something had to be done, but we hit our first blockage in deciding just what that something was.

“We could always wait for Jeeves,” Bingo suggested.

I waved away his idea. I had long since overcome any resentment at being treated like a mere cipher to Jeeves’s brilliance; my concern was that Jeeves would never abandon his mother for the young master, it wouldn’t be done. 

Of course, that would only be if Jeeves were still… up and functioning, shall we say. I mean, he’s a god among men, I highly doubted some lethargic, brainless creatures could topple him in such a short time, especially if Bingo and I escaped unbitten. And yet, that worrisome chamber in my heart, reserved for Jeeves alone, still ached. Irrationality is a difficult beast to tame, and the thought of Jeeves– well, I buried such thoughts under the frantic whir of plans, and decided not to touch upon it until necessity dictated it.

A seriousness came upon Bingo: he put the marmalade down. “How far is it to your aunt’s house?”

“About a five minute drive, ten with traffic.”

“What about with reanimated corpses?”

“...Perhaps fifteen.”

“So we pop over there, check everything’s solid on Dahlia’s end, and then come back here for lunch.”

“Why don’t we just stay at her house?” I asked, not really up to driving through London twice in the same day. I didn’t trust even the Day of the Undead Reckoning to filter the blighted traffic.

Bingo frowned, “What if it’s been taken over by the creatures? She lives on the ground floor, doesn’t she? They’re probably banging on her windows!”

He made a point. “You make a point, old boy, we can bring her back here if needs be. Then we can go visit Jeeves.”

“You’re actually full of bright ideas today, Bertie, I haven’t seen this since nursery.”

“Someone has to be.”

“I paid you a genuine compliment–”

“Bingo! What about Rosie?”

I don’t know how I hadn’t twigged it before, but surely Bingo’s wife, the one and only Rosie M. Banks, was out there in the wild! I dare say society would rip at the seams if we lost Mrs Little and her maudlin novels. It astonished me that Bingo hadn’t imploded from worry already, though he calmed me down with a raised hand.

“She’s on a book tour in Europe, so no need for concern. Yesterday she was in Paris, and from what she said there was no signs of impending doom, so hopefully whatever mess we’re in hasn’t reached her.”

My bruised spirit was calmed, at least a little. It did make me wish we’d shifted it and gone to Paris before the Book of Revelations opened, but then hindsight is a harsh mistress. 

Now that Bingo and I had a plan, or the vague foundations of a plan that might not hold up under any weight, I felt my spiritual anguish noticeably lessen, and it was a hearty Bertram Wooster who shrugged on his coat in preparation to shift it.

I took only the essentials: an umbrella I clutched like Excalibur, the address book containing Mrs Jeeves’s details, and the nice loaf of bread, because I’d be deuced if I abandoned it now.

Bingo unearthed a cricket bat from the back of a cupboard, all dented and scratched with the initials of our friends at school, and nearly picked up his jacket before deciding to leave it there on the carpet, as a spot of good luck. The thing had already served us very well, best not test it a second time. So he pinched one of mine, which I did not object to; he refused to tuck his shirt in or redo his tie, and I think both of those things combined with jacketlessness would have sent dear Jeeves up the bally wall.

The halls of Berkeley Mansions lay empty, our heels echoing on the stairs as we scurried down, avoiding the lift of course. The doorman’s lonely hat rested on the tiles by the entrance, and Bingo and I could see a barrage of undead pedestrians wandering along the street outside. 

Fortunately, they hadn’t noticed us. Unfortunately, reaching my car in the garage meant throwing ourselves out in front of them, which may, perhaps, help them notice us.

I was about to warn Bingo, maybe plot some scheme of sneakiness and psychology, when the fathead rushed out from my side and sprung through the door. It genuinely stumped me, for a moment. You know, he refused to do rugby at school for fear of harming his face, which he considered his most treasured feature (none of our teachers argued the case for his grey cells, funnily enough). I mean to say, gazing as he marched out into the fray with a bursting shout, the blast of scarlet as he whacked an unsuspecting creature’s head with his bat; it was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

“Bertie!”

“Right-ho, yes! On my way!”

Our commotion swiftly caught the attention of the other pedestrians, and soon they all stumbled in our direction, groaning and not any less pale under the afternoon sun. I won’t feign a perfect knowledge in the art of murder, but it isn’t impossible to pick up, even for someone as lithe as myself. It’s all about angles, I find.

For example, if you swing your umbrella from a downward angle, you can knock off a jaw or a row of teeth, but you’re not likely to take the whole head from its perch. Likewise, too high up and the hair takes the blow like a springy cushion, so unless you’re tackling a Roderick Glossop-type, with a shiny dome the size of St. Paul’s, this shall not do.

I darted across the street with Bingo, evading as many creatures as possible. A rotting man grabbed at my coat, spilling puss and blood all down the nice wool, and I swung my umbrella at him, knocking him in the skull with a sharp crack. It sounds much more simple on paper than it did on the street, the adrenaline flowing through my muscles like a potent whiskey, hooking the creatures at their ankles and toppling them as if they were bowling pins.

At one point a fellow caught at my weapon-arm, dragging me to certain doom, and wouldn’t give up despite my struggles and kicks. Just when his bloody mouth came within biting distance of my poor, vulnerable hand, Bingo’s cricket bat swooped in and sent the man’s head flying clean off, clattering against the gutter on the other side of the street.

It surprised him just as it did me. 

I grinned at him. “I dare say that makes up for the cold tea.”

“What cold tea?”

We reached the garage without injury to our persons, and Bingo slammed the door shut as I slid to a halt. Everything was silent, save our incessant pants; both buckled over and about to collapse, Bingo’s lungs crackling like a lost radio channel. And that concerned me. Silence. It never bodes well, does it? 

With the determination of a weed in a curb, Bingo threw himself upright and marched to the hallway lined with doors. “Which one has your car?”

“Three.”

While he went on his little journey to discover the car, I turned to ask Jeeves for the keys. Of course, the fellow wasn’t there. Obviously. So I patted down my pockets. I heard Bingo open a door, and after a quick moment shut it again and reappear in my sights. 

He glanced at me with wide eyes. I glanced at him with even wider eyes. 

“Bad news,” I said.

“Nothing compared to my news,” he replied.

“No, no this is really rather rotten. I fear you might feed me to a monster.”

“I would have done that already, Bertie, if I was so inclined. But my news could explode your fat head.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. At this point, Death by Exploding Head was the least of my concerns.

Bingo scrunched his nose and delivered the blow. “The garage attendants have eaten a fellow in your car. Bit of a nasty scene, to be honest.”

“Oh. Oh!” I grinned, which you might hold against me, considering the guts probably splattering across my nice leather seats. “Well, good thing I forgot the keys then!”

You know, it is rare indeed that I can be lured from my aloof scepticism, and I had seen too much of life to be certain of anything. If anyone had told me that not only would the London populace rot and chase Bingo Little and I through the streets with violence in their glassy eyes, but Fate would actually work out such a coincidence that benefitted rather than hindered me in this rummy sitch, I would have laughed scornfully. I can name but one happenstance in the Wooster life that hasn’t dumped a pail of ice water over my noggin, and he was half-way across the city.

But, I suppose when you’re in the midst of the apocalypse, any old spark of a match shines like the sun. Perhaps the universe took a long look at the odds already stacked against us and felt pity. Such pity, actually, to the extent of supplying us with alternative travel. 

Bingo brightened immensely as we rolled through the streets on our bicycles. Before you gape and gripe, we did not steal them as such – we traded them quite fairly for my car. They even had a basket to store my bread!

We weaved in between the stumbling creatures with airy ease, since their two rancid feet were no match for our two speeding wheels. Bingo rode like a knight on his steed, holding the cricket bat out and jousting down his opponents, and I kept count of his victories for him. It was rather enjoyable, actually, considering the circs. Even the haunting memories of the last time I rode a bicycle, in not so genial weather, didn’t dampen the fun.

It took us no time to reach the street on which Aunt Dahlia resided, and thankfully we did not find a horde of creatures crawling up the drain pipes and knocking down the windows. The funny thing was, the entire street was barren. Either the undead in this area had joined a spectacular game of Hide and Seek before we arrived, or something far more sinister was afoot. 

We abandoned the bicycles and raised our weapons, tuning our ears for that peculiar growling and dragging as we approached Aunt D’s house. It was smack-dab in the middle of the row, doors of neighbouring houses swinging open in the breeze. A few windows were cracked, and a briefcase lay unattended on the footpath, but it all had an eerily lonesome effect, like every single resident had packed up and moved to the moon mere minutes ago. 

Of course, I knew my good and deserving aunt had not done that, not unless outer space now had telephone wires, and as I looked over her house I noted that it did not, in fact, look abandoned like the others. Boards covered the windows, the door was firmly shut and presumably bolted, and– well, the greatest sign of life came in a rather swift shock.

With one short bang, Bingo’s cricket bat went up in splinters. Just like that! We dropped to the road, dreading the thought that somehow the undead had learned how to operate rifles. As Bingo poked a finger through the alarming hole in his bat, a loud voice emitted from the house.

“Back away, you foolish creatures!” 

I might have wondered who had on earth had a microphone at this time, had I not immediately leaped up in recognition.

“Aunt Dahlia! It’s me!”

Ping!

“Good lord– stop shooting! It’s Bertie!”

I waved and danced, pointing at my face in the hopes she might stop shooting the damn gun at her own nephew, and it appeared to have worked. 

There was the distinct sound of several bolts being slid across, and the door creaked open. Standing with her rifle in hand, looking like a Boadicea that would’ve sent the Romans toppling in fear, was none other than my Aged A.

“Get the hell inside!” She shouted, gesturing me in. “And leave that creature behind!”

Bingo pulled himself up next to me and scrambled to the front steps. “I haven’t been bitten yet, Mrs Travers. Lovely to see you!”

My aunt t-chah’d, hauling us in by the collars and slamming the door shut. She wrapped her arms around me in a tight squeeze, and promptly dumped me back next to Bingo, giving him a quick look-over and a pat on the shoulder. I’m not quite sure what I expected to find inside her home. As a loving nephew, I suppose I couldn’t help but worry for her and assume the worst, but I should know my aunt better. She was trained by the Quorn and Pytchley, after all.

Dahlia led us to her office, marching through the corridors to afford us a look around. In the dining room sat a whole host of staff: Seppings, Walker the chauffeur, a few maids I recognised, a few maids I did not, a postman, and five or ten more servants of varying positions. They were all involved in a casual game of cards, smoking and laughing like they hadn’t a care in the world. 

The sitting room proved even more unbelievable. Stuffed onto every inch of carpet was, I could only assume, the entire street. Some of them were dancing to the radio, others chatting like they were at an evening soirée. I even spotted Bonzo running around with a few other children, playing and laughing and not paying a lick of attention to the two fatheads walking by covered in scarlet. 

I can’t say it surprised me, when I gave it a moment of thought. Aunt D’s office was just as I remembered it, except the cabinet at the back was wide open, displaying an impressive collection of hunting firearms. Even the wall of rifles that I had thought purely decoration, just fun relics from her proud past, were pulled down and standing to attention like a row of soldiers.

My aunt plopped into her seat behind her desk and lifted her cigar from the ashtray, taking a puff as she looked at us over her glasses. From Bingo’s shaky hand, he too felt like a schoolboy about to be scolded over a stolen biscuit.

“I am more than happy you’ve survived, my hardy chump. Even happier that you’re here, so I can look after you.”

I bristled a bit at this. “Bingo and I managed quite well on our own, you know. It’s just that– we were sort of concerned for you.”

“Me? Hah!” My aunt cackled. “I, my dear Bertram, am no cause for concern. I was boarding up the windows before you had even raised your head from the pillow, no doubt. I first took note of this peculiar Revelation when a maid delivered my breakfast this morning and tried to take a bite.”

“Oh, well, what! If Jeeves ever took it upon himself to pinch my eggs and bacon–”

“No, young hound, of me. Speaking of, the first bedroom is out of bounds. ‘Tis our make-shift cemetery.”

I refused to feel silly for worrying over Dahlia, especially since Bingo and I moved so speedily through the metrop, but it was a relief to know that her natural inclination for hunting had finally found use beyond terrorising foxes in the English countryside. 

With all that out of the way, Dahlia escorted us to the kitchen and discovered our rather intense hunger; who would’ve thought that simply eating marmalade from the jar doesn’t keep a body running for long, what? Of course, just getting foodstuff wasn’t entirely easy on the nerves.

“Good lord! He’s dead!”

The he in question was poor old Anatole, the god-gifted chef that my uncle would pay an arm and a leg for if he demanded it. And, from his stumbling gait and greying eyes, I shouldn’t wonder if he did demand it.

My aunt waved away my horror. “No need to fret, my darling hound, Anatole is harmless. The real worry is what will happen when he runs out of ingredients.”

I saw what she meant. The kitchen was stacked with dish upon dish upon dish, and there was Anatole hidden away between them, wobbling between frying pans and chopping boards like a mechanical toy. He hardly raised his rotten noggin when we grabbed a plate of fresh baked scones and a bowl of soup, deathly (hah!) focused on contorting his pale hands around a pastry. It takes all kinds to make a world, I suppose, and even more to make an apocalypse.

We chomped down on the miraculous confections of Anatole, because even living death could not falter his pure talent, and I set my long-carried parcel on the table.

My aunt eyed it. “Good of you to bring a present, my chickadee.”

“What? Oh, no, no. This bread is for Jeeves.” With all the excitement, my precious bread was looking more like a pancake than a loaf. I gave it a quick shuffle, patting it like a pillow in the hopes it would fluff back up. “It’s from the nice bakery down my street.”

“You know the one,” Bingo leaned forward, “with the éclairs.”

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “I thought you told me he was Missing In Action?”

“He is. I intend to go and find him.”

A long pause reigned. The soup warmed me inside-out, an utterly sublime effort, Anatole deserved nothing short of a Distinction Grade, or a knighthood considering his condition. My aunt’s eyes bore into me, but I resisted the urge to flail like a nervous sapling.

“...You intend to go and find him?” She pressed.

“That I do.”

“You came all this way to eat my good fare like a witless gay tapeworm, and bugger off again in search of your valet?”

“You have it bang on.”

Dahlia’s head spun to Bingo. “What the devil have you done to him?”

My friend spluttered. “It isn’t me!”

“You were trusted to save him from being bitten, and now he’s hopping mad! Imagine if Agatha found out!”

The nutters continued to argue, and I savoured my soup. The funny thing about my aunt and my bosom chum is that, for whatever reason, Bingo seems to think they’re the best of pals while Aunt D wants to rip out his throat. He regards all of her biting– perhaps I shouldn’t use that word right now– scathing remarks as a big hilarious lark. I really haven’t the heart to break it to him, and I’m nearly sure my aunt wouldn’t actually strangle him like she says. 

Bingo laughed away her booming threat to knock him over the skull with his soup bowl, and I returned to my aunt. “I am perfectly sane, aged a. No rabbits in my bedroom, cross my heart – I simply will not live without Jeeves. I can not.”

My aunt levelled a hard stare at me, like I was little more than a stain on her spectacles, before letting out a long and sailing sigh. “You always were too dependent on him.”

“This isn’t that.”

“I know. I know. Right,” she slammed a fist upon the table, flipping Bingo’s bowl in the air, “we shall fetch Jeeves.”

“We?”

I wondered if I had heard her correctly. Blindly following my aunt without ensuring I knew exactly what she was saying would likely end up with us pinching another cow-creamer.

Aunt D bit into a scone and chewed through the silence. She always enjoys having command of a room. “I am not about to let my poor chump of a nephew run around London without proper protection.”

“We got here just fine–”

“Bertie, I am speaking. As I say, we can go together and I can guarantee you don’t drop dead, or worse: rise again. We can bring Jeeves back here, should we find him.”

“When we find him,” I amended.

“Good boy, Bertie, optimism will carry us through. Tally-ho, what weapons have you got with you?”

I took another spoonful of soup, and Bingo cleared his throat. “We did have a cricket bat, but you, uh, served a pretty ferocious ball.”

Needless to say, my aunt shook her weary head.

“You may need something a little stronger.”

[]

My aunt’s idea of stronger did not encompass my reliable umbrella, and she wouldn’t let me bring it even if it threatened rain.

No, Dahlia had something of a quite different calibre in mind. 

“I can’t shoot! I’ve never even hunted before!”

“Bertie, you couldn’t have a simpler target. The creature is stuck in a drain.”

We stood out on the street, Bingo and I holding rifles in our hands like awkward toy soldiers; the defective kinds the makers would toss over their shoulders into the bin. I mean, we weren’t exactly primed for this sort of thing! I know damn well Bingo’s never hunted for anything besides Billie Burke’s photograph in his life, and I’ve never so much as stood in a field without getting my boot sunken in mud.

While, yes, indeed, the creature we aimed at had his ankle trapped in the drain grating at the side of the road, grumbling with blood dripping from his mouth, it remained much harder than Aunt D seemed to think. Throwing books and frames was much easier, thank you. More tactile, less aiming required.

“Just hold it up and shoot!” My aunt cried, her voice bellowing with exasperation.

“You’re not exactly the most patient teacher, my dear old mysterious hunter.”

“What do I need to teach?” 

“I don’t know, how to shoot!”

My aunt scowled at me, and in one motion, plucked a handgun from her pocket and pointed two bullets down the street. I was about to point out that she missed the intended target quite miserably, perhaps do a little jig of arrogance, when I heard the dramatic flop in the distance. At the tail-end of the street, just a little blot on the horizon, a newly headless creature collapsed into a heap. My eyes widened in despair.

“There,” she said, “that’s your demonstration. Now do it.”

Part of me, that wasn’t fixed with awe, was rather glad that my aunt had kept this more thrilling trait of hers a secret, because I certainly would have put up much less resistance to the idea of stealing cow-creamers and master-chefs for her had I known. She’ll be a veritable Raffles if we aren’t too careful in the future.

Bingo fired, and his bullet whizzed past the creature and lodged into the lamppost about ten metres off. “I’m getting closer!”

“You two are the bane of my existence.”

Not much liking this unjust tirade, I lifted the rifle, took aim (in the vague direction of the undead fellow, I’m not picky), and fired. Honestly, I was too busy swearing over the sting of the sharp kickback to notice if I hit anything at all. It was only when my aged relative yelled an old hunting cheer that I bothered to check.

“Right in the neck! Not a bad shot, my young hound!”

She was right. On any other living person it would’ve sent them sprawling to the ground, but the creature appeared only dizzy, as if confused about where this strange hole in his throat came from. Still, it was close enough! The Wooster blood did not let me down.

Bingo, on the other hand, was not so lucky. He made a marvellous job of tearing up the footpath, the brick walls, the windows – anything around the stuck target. Eventually, sick and exhausted and more than a little mortified, Bingo let out a peevish growl and stormed right up to the creature. He swung the rifle at his head, knocking it clean off with a blow of crimson splatter. 

That solved that matter. 

Dahlia said no more about making Bingo shoot the thing, though I could tell her respect for him, which at the time hovered at about heel level, had risen to at least the knee. She miracled him up another cricket bat (sans a hole), and our preparations were nearly complete. 

I went to visit Uncle Tom and ask perhaps for a little expendable silver, because any horror fanatic worth their snuff knows that certain monsters of the night are a tad allergic and it was worth a try here, but the man I found in his usual chair was… somewhat paler than I remembered. I mean to say, it hadn’t been a month since I’d last visited their home, and I certainly didn’t recall Uncle Tom’s hunched spine and tired groans. 

Well, I don’t need to spell out the harvest for you. I closed the door at once, and hurried back down to my aunt, who was buckling a great number of weapons into her belt.

“Aunt D?”

“What is it, blot?”

“...Is old Tom… all right?”

She frowned. “The poor thing has a spot of indigestion, that’s all.”

“Oh. Right-ho. If that’s all–”

“It is.”

No more was said on the subject. For the moment, at least.

I scrounged up a bigger coat – one of the long kinds that floats in the wind and has rather gaping pockets, to store my bread in. I acknowledge the ridiculousness of lugging that loaf with me everywhere, but even I don’t understand the logic as to why I needed it. I suppose, as long as I had the bread, I was still on my way to Jeeves. I couldn’t abandon that mission, you know. I was on my way to Jeeves, and that was motivation enough.

We packed into Dahlia’s town car, self at the wheel, because my aunt needed her hands free for firing and apparently I drive ‘like a monkey who’s stolen the keeper’s keys and is determined not to be put back in the zoo.’ Her words, not mine. I mean, perhaps I do drive a little rashly at times, although I like to think I’m a pretty stellar driver. I had to be, because the only way out of Agatha’s house was to drive myself, so you can bet I learned as early as legally (and humanly) possible. 

So, it was off through the metrop we went. I still had the book with Jeeves’s mother’s address inside, and besides all the undead obstacles and overturned cars left on the road, it was pretty easy sailing. Bingo leaned out the side with his bat, bashing the heads of any creatures that roamed too close, and Dahlia pinged shots at any he missed in between yelling at me to be gentle with her car.

Probably one of the least stressful drives through London, all things considered. No traffic for one thing, and the moral scruples around hitting wayward pedestrians that wobbled into the road were washed away. Normally that is frowned upon, as you may know. 

“Here we are, then,” Bingo said as we rolled to a stop, a stray limb crunching under the front tire.

Here we were indeed. Jeeves’s mother’s house was a lovely terrace with a small, neat garden, vibrant flowers bursting out from their rows and a few pots trampled by some rather persistent creatures angling for the window. I assumed that the latter item usually isn’t there, so you may disregard them when picturing this delightful home on every other occasion.

“Well, my little Bertram,” said my aunt, kicking me out the car door. “Sally-forth, return with your man, and we shall be back in time for tea!”

“We’ll wait here and keep the engine going!”

“And don’t worry if you hear Bingo screaming–”

“Mrs Travers will protect me!”

“Will she rot!”

Facing off with the undead crawling around the house’s front door seemed much softer on the grey matter than listening to that lot behind me, so I yanked one of Aunt D’s pistols and ankled on, prepared to come to blows.

I thought ahead, assuming the garden gate would squeak when opened, thus I stopped just outside it. And fired my pistol. Which missed entirely and lodged into the bricks. The creatures all turned to me with wide, glassy eyes. I heard my aunt sigh in the background.

I summoned a spot of that calm and careless courage so boasted in the Woosters of Agincourt, and went after the creatures before they could reach me. I leaped over the gate, because I wasn't about to let it squeak now, lifted a plant pot and pinged it against the creature’s head. It fractured with a wild crack, both the pot and the skull. One down, two to go. 

I don’t know if I ever told you this, but Honoria Glossop used to box at university. She had a rather heavy hit, and Bingo used to gather hundreds of pounds in bets when drunken men would challenge her to the ring, tragically unaware of her skills, and get their hubris thrashed within an inch of life. A spiffing sport to watch, and not a little intimidating. Anyway, what I’m working round to here, is that I didn’t spend all that time watching her break men’s noses for nothing. I’m no Honoria Glossop, but I can follow in her footsteps.

The second undead stumbled over, reaching for me before I could grasp my bearings again; his wiry fingers, the skin flaking off, grabbed at my sleeves and yanked me for a bite. Doubting my abilities to aim, I whipped the pistol against the second undead’s noggin, kicking their wobbly pins out from under them, and they crashed against the stone wall. Brains went splat. That’s two, if you’re keeping track.

I was panting by now, the adrenaline rushing with more potency than the Will of the Woosters, and the third creature hauled toward me. I considered my options: rush him, smack him against the door and hope his lemon cracks; throw him over the stone wall like humpty dumpty; biff him on the beak and sprint away. But he was blocking the door, and I rather needed that way clear. 

So I just raised my gun and, with a bit of wild aiming, shot him through the eye. Crimson splashed against the wall like a can of dropped paint. Still, can’t be creative with all of them.

That out of the way, I jumped on and knocked on the door. Far be it for me to be presumptuous; I hadn’t even been invited here, so simply opening the door for myself was alien to my usual habits, and no one came to let me in. 

I knocked and knocked and knocked, even announcing that it was only Bertram and not a blood-sucking flesh-eating corpse from Transylvania, or wherever it is that this plague has spawned from. Alas, neither Jeeves nor his mother popped out, so before that nameless fear filled me once more, I decided to ensure that the house was empty. 

Dropping my pistol into my pocket, I leveraged myself up on the windowsill and looped an arm around the drainpipe like a partner in a dancehall. I mean, I’ve shimmied down enough of these in my lifetime, escaping ruthless fathers and undiscerning police officers, therefore going up must be about the same process, just the other way around.

I am a touch on the lithe side than anything, but it turns out that mass injections of adrenaline and frenzy can really make a man transform. I zipped up that drainpipe in mid-season form, feeling a bit like a rowdy schoolboy again, on the run from Upjohn’s sanctum after nicking a biscuit or two, and reached the upper window in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I doubt I’ll ever exhibit such dexterity again. I would have been proud, had I not been exclusively interested in Jeeves’s welfare.

With my two hands occupied with holding myself up, I knocked against the window with my forehead. Fright gnawed at my heart. If Jeeves were not here, I hadn’t the faintest how I would ever find him again. If I would ever. The possibility remained that he– best not to dwell on those things, lest I trembled myself off my precarious perch.

I knocked again. My temple began to ache, but I cast such scruples off. Then, the light came. The window opened. Two strong hands latched onto me and helped lever me inside, and before I knew what was happening, I had collapsed onto a very broad and capable form.

“...Sir?”

The amount of glee that came over me was considerable, and the sound of his reassuring voice brightened me like no other intoxication can. The relief, as you may well imagine, was stupendous. A great weight rolled off my mind. I blinked to awareness and there he was, pinned under me with eyebrows raised approx. half an inch.

Jeeves. My Jeeves.

“Hello, old thing.”

I knotted my arms around his neck, dragging him into a hug with a blasé care for decorum and feudality. It was an exhausted and relieved Bertram Wooster who was struggling for breath at that mo, and I ought to be forgiven for succumbing to reflexes at a time like that. 

Jeeves curled his arms around me, a hand brushing up and down my back, so I’d like to believe proprietary was damned. Half of London was too; it was all gravy. 

I only lifted my head from his shoulder to scan his parts for any signs of bites or distress, and thank heavens he looked as tan and fit as usual. His head, which stuck out at the back, was untouched and perfect, even if his hair was ruffled in a rather pretty manner, probably on account of being pushed to the floor. He was the same old Jeeves. I could have cried in relief. As it was, I leaned back and plopped on my knees, and Jeeves sat up to meet me.

“Sir,” he began, hands cradling my face, “how did you– what have– …why?”

I let out a laugh, one of those high-strung, disbelieving ones. Of course it takes an undead awakening, of all things, to finally break Jeeves. 

“Why, I’m here to rescue you!”

He blinked.

“And your mother, obviously. Wouldn’t it be awful of me to come all this way to just slam the door on her, what?”

“You came to… rescue me, sir?”

I pulled his hands into mine and stood us upright, and he moved with an unforeseen pliability. He seemed content to simply stare at me like he needed to memorise my every feature.

“You have blood on your shirt, sir.”

He rested a finger on the offending splotch, and I beamed at him. “Will anything distract you from sartorial matters? Anyway, it’s not mine.”

Something dark flickered over Jeeves’s eyes at that. “Indeed, sir?”

“I don’t mean to rush you, old fruit, but I’m afraid Dahlia might smother Bingo if we leave them alone for too long. They’re in the car outside, you know.”

“That is… wise, sir. Allow me to fetch my mother.”

Despite his perfectly formal words, Jeeves didn’t quite shake the strangeness that had overtaken him. He kept a hold of my hand, and guided me downstairs into the kitchen. 

“This is my mother, sir.”

She sat at the table, and smiled in greeting to me. Mary Jeeves was nearly two heads shorter than her son, and the relation to both my man and old Uncle Charlie was striking. She had dark hair and a noble mien, and if it wasn’t for the height and her lack of delightful bump in the nose, I’d have wondered if Jeeves bothered to inherit anything from his father’s side at all.

But I did not have time to voice such observations. I settled for something a bit more open instead.

“What-ho! Lovely to meet you! Would you fancy coming to my aunt’s house so the living dead don’t eat you?”

Mrs Jeeves’s smile softened. “You must be Mr Wooster.”

“Ah, you’ve heard of me! I must say, your son is the world’s greatest gentleman’s gentleman–”

We might have exchanged some other pleasantries, but a honk from outside attracted my attention. I really, really hoped they’d restrained from homicide, it’s just the last thing I needed. 

[]

The drive back was rather peaceful. Dahlia said she’d rather throw herself to the creatures than let Bingo drive her car, so there went my hopes of sitting in the back with Jeeves. Jeeves wasn’t awfully talkative (when is he?), though I kept catching his stare in the mirrors. It sent a frisson across my skin. Not entirely unpleasant.

It was only when we chugged into Dahlia’s street that we noticed the blot upon the landscape.

The blot wriggled and morphed, and I realised it was a gigantic horde of the creatures, all swarming upon Dahlia’s house. To say that this didn’t light up my aunt’s eyes would be paltering with the truth somewhat, but she did let out a little mirthful chuckle while cocking her firearm. 

Bingo and I hopped out of the car after my aunt, who was already firing upon the masses, and I turned to Jeeves and Mrs Jeeves. 

“You two wait here, we won’t be a minute!”

With a pat to his hand, I put my focus upon the creatures. I yanked the pistol from my pocket and shot toward them, toppling a good handful with ease. Of course, I ran out of bullets rather swiftly, so I pinged the gun itself at one fellow, knocking him across the noggin and earning a, “fair play!” from my aunt. It was the work of a second to nip over to her and slide another weapon from her belt, which jangled like a Christmas bell with her movements, and I went right back to aiming generally towards the horde and firing.

Bingo waved his bat with all the force and rage of a hardened gladiator, and I did my best to stay out of his way. I was quite partial to keeping my head upon my neck. 

I find that fighting these corpse-creatures is actually much easier than going up against a peevish swan. A hiss instils far more fear than a measly groan, and where swans can dive and snap and lunge from all angles, with their terrifyingly stretched necks, the creatures stumbled slowly, giving you much more time to assess the sitch. Of course, I don’t recommend either, but it’s the lesser of two rummy evils.

And probably why I was having such success. I forced my way through the crowd, bashing skulls and blasting shoots, and came to a note stuck to the front door. 

‘We are very sorry,’ it read, ‘but he tried to bite Seppings, so he had to go.’

I was shaken to the foundational garments. If I wasn’t busy kicking the undead down the front steps, I’d have muttered something along the lines of injustice and lead pipes.

Anatole must be amongst the crowd. May Heaven bless those spectacular dishes of his.

I pondered if I really had it within me to blow a hole in the poor chap’s onion, especially when I remembered the taste of his chicken dinners. The Reckoning was already foul enough, and this utterly took the cake, so to speak. I couldn’t even slink inside and commiserate with the remains of his cooking, because the door was locked and no one would answer my knocking and shouting.

I was considering just returning to the car to sulk with Jeeves, when Aunt D cried out from the crowd.

There, at the edge of the horde, pale and sickly, was Uncle Tom.

With a really nasty case of indigestion.

We were very quickly left without the option. Nobody was letting us inside, despite it being Dahlia’s house, and staying out here just meant answering to an incessant swarm of creatures. So I took action, with one of my lightning flashes, and beat my way back through the crowd to Aunt D

“Come on,” I shouted over the groans and growls, “we have to go!”

My aged r. trembled like an aspen. “We cannot leave your uncle! He’s– he simply ate some lobster!”

“That’s not my uncle!”

I gripped her arm in a manacle hold, and attempted to pull her away from the animated remains of poor old Tom. His eyes were completely white, and his jacket had fallen apart to reveal a nasty gash all across his upper limb.

“Bertie, he is your–”

“Not anymore!”

“You young hound–”

“Listen! Listen to me!” I had never seen my aunt so out of her senses, even when I was a little boy at a funeral I did not understand. Of all my memories from this frightful day, the image of her wide-eyed face is the one that lingers with the sharpest sting. “That is not Uncle Tom! There is nothing left of him there! The man you loved is not out here on this street, I promise!”

This seemed to get through to her. Perhaps seeing her fatheaded nephew be rational and taking charge snapped her back into survival conditions. She inhaled distinctly, and nodded. 

She even stayed true when the creature that once was Uncle Tom halted in his grumble towards us, and stooped down to examine a shiny coin on the ground. Some things are unchanging, death and all.

Our dash to the car was ruined by an impressive amount of the undead hobbling around it, threatening to shake the thing to pieces. I fired at them, catching one through the head, but I – and this is rather mortifying – somehow also shot the back tyre.

It hissed as the air escaped.

“For heaven’s sake, you abysmal chump!”

“My apologies!”

“What?” Bingo, his bat stained with blood, returned to us. “What did Bertie do now?”

“He shot a damn hole in the tyre!”

“Oh, what the hell, ugly?”

“I didn’t mean to!”

My aunt tutted. “It’s just one damn thing after another today. All right Jeeveses, shift it. We’re marching this time.”

I gave a hand to Mrs Jeeves, helping her out of the car, and Jeeves stayed at my elbow as always. 

We weren’t so much marching as briskly, very briskly, legging it. The swarm of creatures, though we suckered a good chunk of them, kept after us like a pride of limping and half-squiffy lions, but it at least kept Aunt D distracted from her grief by firing at them without pause.

Out-pacing the horde proved relatively simple, despite the fact that as we went, more and more creatures blotted into the mass like droplets of oil; writhing and slippery and definitely going to stain. I kept an arm on Mrs Jeeves, as any preux-chevalier should (my aunt would have slapped me away), which is why I didn’t immediately notice the peril that Jeeves was facing.

But you can imagine how I stirred at the sight. Jeeves was stuck fending off a ghastly fellow, and about to be struck amidships by another. It was with me the work of a minute to ankle over to him, with relentless ferocity, and throw the creature away from him. I shoved one to the ground and used him like a domino against the other, leaving poor Jeeves to unmuddle himself at their feet.

The trouble about whirling on your axis, in case you didn’t know, is that you’re liable to trip over your pins, and this is what Jeeves proceeded to do. In a perfectly refined way. His left shoe got all mixed up with the creature’s right shin, he tottered, swayed, and after a brief pause came down like some noble tree beneath the axe.

I lost in this maze of numbing thoughts, but my natural instincts of Jeeves-preservation kicked in with a spark, and I attached an arm around his waist and yanked him back onto the footpath. Safety. 

Honestly, my heart could not take any more near-misses for Jeeves – it was liable at any moment to simply burst and then where would we be? I’d have to haunt the good man from purgatory, like the miserable Dickens chap. 

“Jeeves!” I ejaculated. I’m pretty sure that’s the word. Anyway, I’ll risk it. “Good lord, man! Must I tie you to my wrist?”

Jeeves, at least, had the decency to turn as white as marble, his mouth parted ever-so slightly. “I… Thank you, sir. That was a somewhat narrow squeak.”

“It was indeed. Don’t do it again.”

“Yes, sir. I really must thank you, sir.”

“It’s not much, old thing. May I remind you of all those crucial moments you came in and saved my hide? The alteration with the swan, for example? Oh, hold on–”

The damn undead whatchamacallit reached a hand up the curve, and I did not appreciate being interrupted in my moment with Jeeves. Bang! 

“I’m afraid some, uh– red stuff might’ve gotten on your trousers, my dear Jeeves.”

That peculiar thingness came over his eyes again, like a contorted twinkle, a lighthouse through the fog, and he tightened his grip on my arms. I hadn’t even noticed I was still keeping him locked around the waist.

“It is of no consequence, sir.”

“Really? I suppose the usual routines have truly been usurped, haven’t they?”

Jeeves paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to add, and then glanced away, releasing me. “I believe we are near your club, sir, if we would like to enter there for refuge.”

What a brilliant idea!

“What a brilliant idea, Jeeves! Your fish-fed brain is still firing on all cylinders!”

When the others were thus informed, the Drones Club was very quickly overtaken with an enthusiasm not seen even on the likes of the Darts Tournament nights. The doors were barricaded, windows trapped and locked, and finally, at last, a lull arrived.

[]

You may remember, if I ever mentioned it in the past, that I won the Scripture Prize at school. A pretty prestigious award, may I say, and any accusations of untoward conduct in the earning of said p. a. are utter hearsay.

Anyway, there’s a quote in there from Revelations, you know the one about the apocalypse and what, along the lines of:

A trumpet jars, and said, “Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after these things.”

Well, that’s about the gist of it. 

But this felt like the After These Things. Everything was quiet, the walls of the club being quite thick. The reclusion made it all feel like another life, another time – there couldn’t possibly be anything happening outside of here, what rot.

Dahlia and Bingo were sat at the bar together, chatting somewhat amiably. No raised voices, no hurled insults. It seemed almost too good to be true, but I wasn’t about to poke the sleeping beast.

I myself lounged next to Mrs Jeeves, watching over her for signs of nervous shock or puncture wounds. Her son, that is my Jeeves, scanned us intently from across the room, avoiding my eye but never looking away from us.

“It feels like a long time coming,” I said to Mrs Jeeves.

She smiled. “Reg follows very strict boundaries. He’s much like his father in that way.”

Hah! So it was more than the nose and the height. I tried to avoid saying such, even if my amusement was evident on my map. That must be the explanation for Mrs Jeeves’s raised eyebrow, and the strange glance to her son.

“He talks of you constantly.”

“Who?”

“Reginald.”

“Jeeves? Jeeves talks of me?”

“Every time he visits. I wondered if he wasn’t making it all up.”

“I feel like that myself, sometimes.”

The lines around her eyes crinkled, and it reminded me so much of him. “It is an honour to meet the real Mr Wooster.”

“Oh, no,” I said, lifting her hand and placing a light kiss upon it, like a knight to a revered queen, “the honour is all mine.”

That inscrutable quirk of the lips that runs in the family was overwhelmed with a young giggle, and I like to think that Mrs Jeeves truly liked me. It’s not often Bertram Wooster earns the approval of a beloved’s parent. I think I can count… well, no. Just this one. It was much sweeter, of course, since I genuinely cared for her good opinion.

Mrs Jeeves unknotted my bird’s nest of a tie and began to redo it for me. “He is happier, with you.”

I didn’t feign ignorance at this. I just listened to the fabric.

“He never stays with an employer this– at all. He’s smiled so much more in the last few years.”

These are the kind of things not fit for human consumption. It awakened all sorts of sensibilities within me; feelings deeper and warmer than that of ordinary friendship. I chanced a look at him, and his gaze was right there. Always, ever, was there. 

Do I have the power to make Jeeves smile? A real smile? I’ve seen it on occasion, like a rare and fine bird, skimming over a still pool. I’d chase it across a thousand skylines, if needed.

It seems quite the cross to bear. I’ve never shouldered something quite so quickly, and with such pride.

Mrs Jeeves tightened the tie nicely, as if my entire ensemble wasn’t drenched in foul-smelling fluids. “You should speak with him. He smashed two teacups this morning, all shaken with worry.”

As much as I enjoyed Mary Jeeves’s company, I did not need to be told twice. I thanked her for the tie and stalked over to the younger, sliding into the booth next to him.

We sat quietly. I pulled my knees up on the leather, and they pressed against his thighs. I could’ve stared at his rising chest all day. Just the symphony of his breathing, I could feel my cheeks glowing pink in mere moments. The funny thing was– I reeked, I was entirely aware of it, utterly stinking with blood and sweat and rot, and yet all I could smell was what I remembered of him. Pomade, mint. The linger of shaving foam in the mornings. What a funny, guilty thing to remember at a time like this.

Jeeves’s chest stuttered, and he spoke. “What possessed you, sir, to travel all the way across London? It was exceedingly perilous and ill-advised. You could have–” He coughed, like a sheep on that distant mountain. “I could never have forgiven myself.”

That made the two of us. I watched the end of his eyebrow curl barely a half an inch, I watched his shoulders broaden as he straightened his spine, I watched his hand twitch toward me like a beckoning to come. 

Needs and wants are uncomplicated things, really. I dropped my head against his chest, resting with his heartbeat under my ear, his lungs under my temple. I needed to survive. No– I needed Jeeves to survive, so I wanted to survive. 

I gave a hysterical laugh, muffled in his shirt. Needs, wants. It was simple to dig into my pocket and present the loaf of bread into Jeeves’s lap. What remains of the loaf of bread. I mean, it might as well have been a week old scrap, the thirteenth of the dozen tossed out by the baker.

The paper crinkled as he untied it, and it all crumpled out. From his silence, I assumed he could identify it. That was a small mercy. Not many of them in the air that day, so I smiled while I still could.

“For you.” I needed him to know. I wanted him to feel it. “It’s always for you.”

His chest stopped moving. I tell you, with what was happening in that distant place out on the street, I’ve never felt such potent fear than the thought that Jeeves would be done here, right in front of me. After all that. 

“Jeeves? Jeeves–”

With silent movements, he ran a hand through my hair and brought my head to him, wrapping the other around my back. I was practically in the man’s lap, my nose pressed to the skin at the crook of his neck. It smelt of shaving cream. I could feel the blood thrumming. It was warm, hot, it was alive.

And it was mine.

[]

There is no climatic ending, I’m afraid. We did no great battle, much to the horror, I’m sure, of my Agincourt ancestors. We huddled in the Drones Club for hours, and they passed, and that was it.

I never moved from Jeeves’s lap. Neither did he remove his arms from me. Even when rescue came, proper rescue with armour and uniforms, we carried each other back to Berkeley Mansions. I needed him and he wanted me to, and he needed me and I wanted him to. Love’s very simple like that.

I sound so foolish in the beginning of this manuscript. No doubt I often do. To think that we could stay the same. Silly me. Of course, I didn’t quite see an Undead Awakening on the horizon, and I can’t say that’s quite what we needed, but the effect was much the same.

So we started over after the end of the world, with a familiar routine of late rises and walks to the bakery, unfavoured ties and fancy loaves of bread. The unfamiliar, and all that it entails I shall leave to your discerning, slotted in like a hand in a white glove.