Leaning on P&P & Zombies= Not too much. It’s literally the book WITH zombies, so it’s written by both Jane Austen and the guy who…wrote it. Haha. But I’m too lazy to do that…and it kind of would be plagiarism.

Kinda. Which is too bad, because I can’t stand my writing. I feel as if it drones on and on and on…

A note-was it weird that the bishop’s stick was hollowed out? ‘Cause I thought it was sort of cool.

The plague had gotten worse. Early October sent a buzz around Digne in the same year—1815.

The ninjas of Digne observed a mysterious man walking into the town. Just passing through perhaps? They hoped so. Even to the highly trained ninjas he looked suspicious; ripped shirt, threadbare trousers, and a tattered grey jacket that had obviously been patched many times. He carried on his back a new soldier’s knapsack and a large spear with a zombie head mounted impressively near the tip. As he passed the houses, he pulled the brim of his cap down, concealing most of his face. His beard was too long, some observed, and was matted with blood; most likely his own (not an uncommon thing.) He must have been walking all day, for he had stopped to drink at the public drinking fountain and then again further on.

At first the people observing him thought he would just pass through, coming from the South, but it was seen that at the corner of the Rue Poichevert he turned to the Town Hall and entered, coming back out fifteen minutes later.

The stranger then went toward the inn Croix-de-Colbas. The owner was esteemed because of his connections with a man in Grenoble, who was a famous zombie slayer. Jacquin Labarre, the owner of the Croix-de-Colbas, was always spoken of as ‘the cousin of Labarre—slayer of the undead.’

It was the best in the district, with full services plus a training/practice area for the deadly arts near the kitchen; the kitchen being the entrance. The stranger went by way of that door, walking in and looking around. The innkeeper, who was the cook as well, was slicing something, giving an exaggerated battle cry each time he did. In the next room, the stranger could hear similar cries as a party of waggoners had decided to practice their aim while they waited for dinner.

A few large birds were cooking on a spit, a few fish cooking on the stove. A zombie head was floating in a jar of liquid near the hearth with an expression that said, “Braaaaaaains!”

The innkeeper waited a moment after the stranger opened the door, listening for uneven footsteps or a groan. When he was sure it wasn’t a zombie who had entered, he said, “What can I do for you, Monsieur?”

“I need a meal and a bed,” returned the stranger.

“By all means—“ He looked up at the stranger and added, “—provided you can pay.”

“Yes, I have money.” The stranger held up a shabby leather purse from his jacket pocket.

“Then come in, come in, I’ll put that head somewhere if you please.” He gestured to the zombie head on the man’s spear.

“No thank you,” the man replied shortly, sitting by the fire, but keeping his spear in his hand. The innkeeper examined him, while still trying to look busy.

“Will dinner soon be ready?” the stranger asked.

“Quite soon.” The innkeeper, Jacquin Labarre, was a bit suspicious of this man. He seemed to be a free-lance zombie slayer. Probably not the sort he’d want in his inn. He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to a blood-covered lad who had just walked in. “And get that blood off as soon as possible,” he added. “Inhale that stuff for too long and you’ll catch the plague, you imbecile.” He whacked the boy lightly on the head and sent him off to the Town Hall.

The stranger heard none of this. “Will dinner soon be ready?” he asked again, later. He was watching the zombie head on the hearth intently.

“Quite soon!” As soon as the innkeeper growled this, the boy came back—clean now—and gave him the same slip of paper. There was other writing on it, he had gotten his reply.

The innkeeper read it eagerly and then stopped, thinking a moment. After reflecting on his decision, he sent the lad away and went to the stranger. “I’m sorry—Monsieur? I can’t have you staying here.” His sword was on hand if he needed it.

The man stood up, almost knocking the pickled zombie head over. “What?! Are you afraid I shan’t pay—I will, I’ll even pay in advance if you—“

“It’s not that.”

“Well?”

“Well, I haven’t got a room free. A whole band of ninjas came and then the waggoners…and the rooms on the Northern side are still infested with undead …” They were working on that—Lord knows where they came from.

“Put me in the stable, then,” the stranger said calmly.

“I couldn’t—the old training equipment takes up half, the horses take the other.”

“Then the hay loft—“

“Is occupied by the bodies of slain undead.”

“Look, we can talk about it after dinner—“

“I can’t offer you dinner.”

The stranger started. “But…but I’m dying of hunger! I’ve walked all day—I must have made twelve leagues at least!”

“There’s nothing to spare,” the innkeeper said firmly.

The stranger laughed both from exasperation and anger. He jabbed a thumb toward the spit. “What about that?!”

“It’s all reserved.”

“Reserved! By who on Earth?!”

“The waggoners.”

“How many are there?”

“There are twelve.”

“Look here, I am at an inn and I am hungry. There’s enough there to fill twenty easily. I’m stopping here,” the stranger said, not raising his voice.

The innkeeper had had absolutely enough. He pulled his sword from its sheath, which had been resting next to the door. In a battle stance, he pointed his sword at the stranger. “Get. Out,” he growled through his teeth. The stranger turned around, seeing how uncomfortably close the sword was to his face.

He gripped his spear tighter and opened his mouth to say something, but the innkeeper cut him off and said in a low voice, “Enough talk, you. We know who you are. Your name is Jean Valjean, isn’t it?” His sword glinted menacingly in the light from the fire. “And do you want to know what you are? Look, there’s a note from the Mairie on that counter over there.” He jerked his head in that direction. “Take it. Can you read?”

The stranger stared at the piece of paper for a long while until he reached over and took it. “I’d like to treat everyone politely. Kindly go away before I do something I’ll regret,” the innkeeper said darkly. His sword glinted again and, as the stranger began to leave, his carefully put it back in its sheath.

The stranger left without another word, going away from the inn and down a random street. He didn’t look back; he didn’t want to. He knew what he would see: the innkeeper and others looking at him; pointing and whispering. A humiliated man, crushed by misfortune, doesn’t look back.

Instead of turning to look back at them, he went down the streets without knowing where he was going or why. A sound came from behind him and cut through his soul, it seemed. A moan; the moan of…

He turned around and saw three female zombies scrambling toward him. One’s skin was the color of ash, meaning she’d been dead for longer. The other two were quite young. His fatigue was so great he’d almost forgotten that he needed to find lodging, and was happened upon by them.

Being caught by surprise, he stumbled back a bit, gripping his spear. As they came dangerously near to him, the young ones running at top speed but the old one closer to him, he discarded the zombie head on his spear and ran the old one through. A small plume of dust came out her back with the tip of the spear, and she crumpled to the ground.

He whipped around and kicked the other one under her chin, breaking her neck. He stabbed her to make sure she was gone, and then turned toward the third one. She had already gotten close enough to grab his arm and was in the act of showing off her meat-filled mouth when he sliced her head off. He narrowly avoided the blood, although some splattered on his arm. With a small nod, he mounted the first zombie’s head on the spear.

He went to a nearby pool of muddy water, examined it, and decided it was safe. Taking a handful, he washed the blood off to the best of his ability. Most of it came off, and besides, he wouldn’t be inhaling the aromas of his arm anytime soon.

As he walked along in search of an inn, he sorted out his thoughts. So the better, bigger inn was closed to him. He still needed a place to stay…so he would look for other places—taverns for the poor. Any place would do, as long as he got away from these streets.

He finally found one, a tavern at the end of the Rue de Chauffaut. He glanced in the window at a low-ceilinged room, lighted by lamps made of shrunken heads, which the poor used as lanterns or lamps in those days. A few men were drinking and a stew pot bubbled over the fire. The scene was pleasing, and the stranger took the side door in.

The innkeeper said, “Who’s that?” without looking up.

“I’m a traveler looking for a meal and a bed.”

“Come in, then, friend. We can give you both.” The stranger put down his knapsack and the innkeeper said, “Come and warm yourself by the fire. Oh, and I can take care of that head for you.”

The stranger nodded. Maybe it was a custom here to let the host take care of your zombie heads until the morning?

He sat down by the hearth while the innkeeper took the head and set it on one of the tables. Just as everyone was getting settled, a fish-merchant, who had had bad business ever since the plague had started to spread in food, recognized the man as the one Labarre had turned out.

He beckoned the innkeeper, who went to him, and they talked in hushed tones for a minute or two before the host went over and tapped the stranger on the shoulder. “You must clear out of here.”

The stranger gritted his teeth for a second, and then looked up. “You know?”

The innkeeper nodded.

“They turned me out…”

“You’re being turned out here too.”

“But…where am I to go?!” he asked desperately.

“Somewhere else.” The stranger left without taking his zombie head.

The next place he tried was a prison. He pulled the bell-chain hanging next to the doorway and a panel in the door slid back.

“Monsieur,” the stranger said, taking off his cap quickly, “would you be so kind as to let me in and give me lodging for the night? The undead count is rising; I cannot sleep outside.”

The voice of the doorkeeper said, “If you want to be let in, get arrested. This is a prison.” The panel closed, and then slid open again. “And don’t come complaining to me about the undead.” The panel closed again.

He came next to a one-storied house with a lighted window. He looked in and saw a family of four having a happy time inside. Among the common household things, a double-barrel shot gun, a pair of nunchucks, and a long sword stood out, hanging on the wall opposite the window.

Such a happy household must also be kind, he reasoned. Perhaps they would be so kind as to let him sleep in their shed.

He tapped on the window a few times until he finally got the father’s attention. He picked up a shrunken head lamp and his gun and strode to the door. His wife stood up as well, reaching for the sword.

When he opened the door, the stranger began to plead for food and lodging. The master of the house relaxed a little when he saw that the one knocking was not a zombie.

“Who are you?” he asked the stranger.

“I come from Puy-Moisson-please, Monsieur, would you spare some food and your shed for the night? I can pay.”

“Of course I wouldn’t refuse any of that to a living man who can pay…but why not go to an inn?” the man asked suspiciously.

“There…are no rooms.”

“What! Did you try Labarre?”

“Yes, I went there first.”

“And…?” The man’s wife finally decided to take the sword. He smiled vaguely at his wife’s mistrust.

“He…wouldn’t have me…” the stranger said slowly.

“What about that other place, the Rue de Chauffaut? There must be a room there.”

“He wouldn’t have me either.”

The man’s wife cried out in surprise and her husband understood immediately. “You’re the man!” his wife cried, before he could. She gripped the sword tighter and bore her teeth like a wild cat. It was not uncommon for a woman to speak for her husband during the time of the Undead Plague.

“Get out,” the husband growled, holding up his gun.

“Please! A glass of water, I beg of you—“

“A glass of your own blood’s what you’ll get! Get out before I shove this sword up your nose!” the wife shouted from inside the house, standing protectively in front of the children.

The door was slammed and the stranger staggered back into the street. He saw the limping figure of a zombie at the end of the road, and moved in the other direction.

He moved in the direction of what he thought to be a small hut. It wasn’t very tall at all and looked temporary. He would get over his hunger if he could find somewhere to stay hidden from the undead, which constantly patrolled the streets.

He hopped a fence dividing it from the road and examined it. Unless they had turned while in the hut, no zombie could ever figure out how to get into it. He relaxed slightly and wriggled in.

After a moment of lying, the stranger began to unbuckle his knapsack. At that moment he heard wheezy moaning coming from above him. He looked up and found himself lying dangerously close to a male zombie’s face. The zombie’s skin was filmy, as if it was shedding. Blood and meat poured out of its mouth and dripped onto the man’s forehead. He screamed and scrambled out of the hut, over the fence, and down the street at top speed.

As he reached a dead end in the road, he wiped off his face as much as he could. At least it wasn’t the zombie’s blood—still; the thought of another human’s pureed intestines on his face was a bit disturbing.

He sank onto a large stone by the side of the road. “Even the undead have shelter,” he groaned out loud. He thought briefly of leaving Digne and going into the woods ahead, but at night newly dead zombies rose, and the woods were not the best place to be.

He sighed deeply. Nothing seemed to be going right, nothing at all. It was so frustrating—why did it have to be this way for him? He was a man like any other, and he was to become a midnight snack just because of a yellow slip of paper.

“I may as well die sleeping,” he told himself, and found his way to the cathedral square, in which the Dojo of Digne was as well. He glared at the church and made his way across, lying down, exhausted, on a stone bench outside of a printing shop.

An old woman came out of the dojo and saw him. “What are you doing?” she asked the stranger.

“Can’t you see what I am doing? I am sleeping here,” he responded angrily.

“Sleeping? On this bench? The undead will surely make a meal of you.” The woman was a ninja, Madame R, one of the highest ranking women where she came from, looking forward to becoming a Grand Mistress or at least a First Class Slayer.

“I’ll manage.”

“Were you a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“Why not an inn?”

“I have no money.”

“Hmm,” she mused. “I have four sous in my purse.”

“Better than nothing.” He took the four sous.

“It won’t get you into an inn, but…” She changed her train of thought. “Are you sure you’ve tried everything? You can’t possibly sleep here, this is one of the most dangerous places in Digne at night. Surely someone will take you in out of charity.” She nodded firmly.

“I’ve knocked on every door.”

“You can’t possibly mean--!”

“I’ve been turned away everywhere.”

“Well,” the woman said, touching his arm and gesturing to the building beside the bishop’s palace, “everywhere?”

“Yes.”

“Even that one?”

“…no…”

“Then do so!” she exclaimed, pulling him up and waiting until he reached the door before she walked away. A zombie ran at her at top speed and she kicked its head off without batting an eye.

My gosh, this is going to be so epic toward the end. I have a very special treat for Javert fans…especially J/JVJ fans…

This chapter had me leaning a bit more of Victor Hugo’s writing, because there’s so much dialogue and his lines tend to be short.

I actually went to see Zombieland this weekend—I recommend!