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"But Miss Scarlett," wailed Prissy miserably, "I don't know nothin' 'bout killin' no zombies!"
Scarlett O'Hara could've wrung the little liar's neck, then and there. But she was a lady. And a sensible woman wouldn't do away with the only other living soul who could possibly help her and Melly survive this madness, however slim that chance might be. Who was she fooling? That wretched Prissy had lied to her once already, having been absolutely no help in delivering Ashley and Melanie's child. So, what gave Scarlett the notion that her simpleton maid wouldn't just run off in order to save her own hide?
Aunt Pitty and Uncle Peter had abandoned them. They were on their own. And the undead were coming.
Once again, it would be up to Scarlett to do everything. None of the men were going to save them. Well, she reconsidered, perhaps one might...
In the sweltering upper room of Aunt Pittypat Hamilton's old house in Atlanta, occupied by the ailing Melanie, Scarlett was perspiring heavily. Yet the mere thought of Rhett Butler's dark, scrutinizing eyes, mouth curled into a roguish smirk, ogling her current, grubby (and decidedly unladylike) state warmed her from the inside-out even more.
Oh, what was the use? What would her mother do at a time like this? And how could a proper lady show any kind of restraint anyhow, what with the whole world crumbling all around her?
There'd be no sense sending Prissy for Rhett; not after the maid had dawdled so, when sent to fetch Doctor Meade. No, Scarlett would have to call on him, herself. But it was just as much a waste of time to be dwelling on her shame and indignation about it as it had been to rely on Prissy. Nursing her wounded pride wasn't going to get them back to Tara.
So Scarlett lowered her clenched fist, strode over to Prissy and handed her a fireplace poker, and a kitchen knife. "Here. You bar this door after me."
Prissy quavered. "But - "
"Not another word," snapped Scarlett.
She refastened hastily the top buttons of her damp shirtwaist, the demand for modesty victorious in its brief skirmish with her physical discomfort, even if that Rhett Butler wasn't in the slightest bit deserving of it. "And I know just where that varmint will be, too," she muttered.
Belting the late Charles Hamilton's Confederate-issue saber at her left hip, and sheathing his bowie knife upon her right, Scarlett flexed her hands and let out a long, deep breath.
"You can do this, Katie Scarlett," she told herself, imagining her father's voice. "'Til now, you've always looked away in fright whenever Pork beheads the chickens, as befittin' a fine, bonny lass. But no longer, my love. Now, it be war..."
"You're right, Pa," answered Scarlett from within her own mind. "You're right."
Dispatching fiends couldn't be any worse than helping Doctor Meade amputate the limbs of the infected. She'd surely seen far more than her fair share of that, by now.
She imagined her tough, no-nonsense Mammy back at Tara whirlin' upon the undead like Fury incarnate—make no mistake—an axe gripped in each of her strong, meaty hands. The thought made Scarlett smile, and she beamed with momentary pride before being struck by an acute pang of homesickness.
Yes—if we can get through this, then we'll be home.
Scarlett turned to Prissy then, barking, "You're going to guard Miss Melly an' baby Beau 'til I return with Captain Butler and the carriage. An' if any harm comes t'either of them, I'm holding you personally responsible—do you hear me? If you can't use that knife proper, then you best prepare t'fall on it, or I'll send you an' the ghouls to the devil with it, myself!"
The dejected Prissy nodded, sniveling pathetically, wide-eyed as a doe.
If only Prissy had even an ounce of courage, Scarlett thought, with an indignant sniff. Why, Mammy has more grit in her lil' finger than this mealymouthed excuse for a...
Half-delirious in her sick bed, Melanie murmured something unintelligible.
Scarlett hastened to her side. "Hush now," she whispered, "I'll be right back, Melly. You save your strength." What little you have of it, Scarlett thought.
Before venturing out, just for luck, Scarlett leaned over to kiss gently the forehead of the sleeping newborn cradled in Melanie's arms. Against Scarlett’s rough, chapped lips, the softness of the baby's skin and wispy curls of hair felt like the finest of velvet and the most delicate of silks.
"Great balls o'fire..." whispered Scarlett in terror.
Atlanta was burning. On the horizon, the night sky glowed red above the trees of the distant town. Shouting and gunshots came from the direction of the warehouses near the depot.
Coughing, Scarlett hastily tied her kerchief over her nose and mouth, forcing back the bile in her throat rising up at the unmistakable stench of charred, rotting flesh that prompted recent, nightmarish memories of Doctor Meade's crowded, makeshift infirmary. Weaving around the rubble, she hurried down the debris-laden Peachtree Street and into town, her eyes stinging at the smoke.
Amidst the noise of breaking glass, splintering wood, and the sound of distant detonations, Scarlett gripped the brass hilt of Charles's sword, her heart pounding, ready to fend off any undead she might encounter as she made her way to the once-lively Decatur Street and the Red Horse Saloon. There, she was sure that no-good scoundrel Rhett Butler was likely holed up.
As Scarlett skirted a large, overturned carriage and the carcass of its dead horse blocking the middle of the road, from the shadows of the wreckage there rose an ominous groan. Scarlett froze, cursing beneath her breath.
With a sickening slurp, a gaunt figure with a pale, grey head and filthy, matted hair looked up from where it crouched in the dirt over the horse's partially devoured skull. It's bloodied mouth agape, the undead fiend licked what remained of its rotted lips, and stared vacantly at Scarlett.
The ghoul rose. To Scarlett’s dismay, it wore a ragged, threadbare Confederate soldier’s uniform. She uttered a quick prayer. God help me, she begged, as she steadied herself, raising her sword. When the fiend lunged at her, Scarlett's knees nearly buckled; still, she held out Charles's saber, resolutely gripping its hilt with both hands. She couldn't help turning away in disgust as the ghoul slammed against her, its clawlike fingers grasping for her as the foul odor of its breath and necrotic flesh assaulted her nostrils.
Just when Scarlett was sure she would vomit, her attacker began twitching violently, then went perfectly still.
Scarlett opened her eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief. The fiend had impaled itself on her sword. Its limp body fell to the ground. She'd actually run the ghoul through!
"Ha!" said she, proudly, glancing about to see if anyone else had witnessed her extraordinary feat.
But before she could declare a triumphant, "Fiddle-dee-dee!" from behind her came the foreboding, eerily familiar sound of approaching footsteps dragging, shuffling and shambling in the dirt. Slowly, Scarlett turned around.
Sure enough, a second undead fiend was staggering towards her. Scarlett reached for her sword, but couldn’t draw it from the first ghoul's body.
Tugging at the saber’s hilt with all of her strength, with each exertion she swore, growling, "As...God...is...my...witness!" To no avail—the blade was lodged too deeply.
Frantically, Scarlett fumbled for the knife at her waist. "Run!" she told herself, but her shaking legs finally gave way.
The second ghoul was almost upon her. Scarlett screamed.
The loud report of a gunshot rang out. A bullet tore through the ghoul's head, and the fiend collapsed at Scarlett's feet. When Scarlett looked up, there was Rhett Butler standing some distance away, lowering his smoking pistol.
"He's one of the best shots in the country," Scarlett murmured to herself in awe, repeating what she'd overheard Ashley say of Rhett when they'd first met at Twelve Oaks, before the war had started. With relief, she observed that, despite the distant clamor, the two of them were now blessedly alone in the remnants of chaos all around them in the street.
"Oh, Rhett—thank goodness you're here!" she exclaimed as he came towards her, holding the reins to a sad looking horse and a delivery wagon. Scarlett didn't bother asking where he'd gotten it from; he'd most likely stolen it.
Rhett looked from the ghoul he'd shot to Scarlett's handiwork lying in the dirt, thoroughly impaled, and let out a low whistle of admiration.
Despite appearing just as sweaty, dirty, and unkempt as Scarlett knew herself to be, the infamous Captain Butler still tipped his hat cordially, holstering his pistol. "Fine evening for a barbeque, ain't it, Mrs. Hamilton?"
Scarlett pursed her lips, the young widow bristling at another of Rhett's snide, all-too-knowing jabs at her former, loveless marriage. "You know, you can quit calling me that." She folded her arms across her chest in disapproval, which was actually an attempt to conceal that the top buttons of her dress had once again come undone. "Besides, how can you make jokes and stand on formality, at a time like this?"
"Why not, my dear, if only for such a time as this? These are the times that define us, after all, and what we choose to do in spite of them is what separates us from all manner of beast." Grinning slyly, Rhett glanced down unabashedly at Scarlett's open bodice as he leaned over her to withdraw her saber from the slain ghoul's carcass with ease. After examining the blade with an expression of disdain, he handed her the sword.
"Yes," drawled Scarlett, clasping the lowered neckline of her dress closed with one hand, "and you would know all about beasts, wouldn't you?"
Rhett laughed heartily. "My dear Scarlett, how I've missed you."
"Then you ought to aim better," she retorted.
"Well, you can thank me for my marksmanship once we're out of this mess. Speaking of which: it's high time you got rid of that ridiculous sword. I've another special gift for you from Europe." He presented her with a unique, double-barrelled pistol with multiple cylinders. "This, my dear Scarlett, is known as a LeMat grapeshot revolver. Take good care of it, and it'll take good care of you."
"Why, Cap'n Butler," Scarlett accepted the new weapon with near-giddy delight. "I do believe you spoil me! But you really don't care one bit for a lady's reputation, now do you?"
"Not in the slightest. Don't you remember what I said to you, back when we danced together at the Monster Bazaar?"
Her laugh was rueful. "Monster Bazaar” it had been, indeed. "That with enough courage, one can do without a reputation?"
"Precisely."
She glanced across the street at where the Red Horse Saloon had once stood. Wouldn't you know, Belle Watling's brothel had burned down.
The path of her gaze hadn’t escaped Rhett's eagle-eyed notice. "And so, dear Scarlett, it seems the world's gone all to hell. If you're still fool enough to want to go home to Tara, then we may as well be fools together. Haven't I always said that you and I are very much alike?"
Scarlett smiled, mopped her sweaty brow on the back of her sleeve, then curtseyed politely. With a flourish, she daintily offered her hand to Rhett as he helped her climb into the stolen wagon. "Cap'n Butler, I do declare: you sure do know how to show a girl a good time!"