Steven Harper - The Doomsday Vault

“You’re doing it wrong!” Alice shouted at d’Arco. “It’s not affecting them!”

He ignored her, pumped furiously, and tried again. The ugly chords came out still louder this time, and the clockworker winced in the middle of his shambling army, though his playing continued. He added a new element to his tune, and one of the zombies picked up a chunk of wood from the overturned truck. It threw the piece straight at Alice. With a gasp, she ducked, and the piece of wood smashed into the machine. There was a pop , and hot steam hissed from the interior. The machine groaned and fell silent.

“Shit!” d’Arco said. The zombies were only a dozen paces away. His face pale beneath dark hair-he seemed to have lost his hat-he jumped down to the cobblestones and pulled an enormous rifle from a rack strapped to the side of the wagon. A cable ran from the stock of the rifle to another machine, the size of a Saint Bernard, bolted to the wagon floor.

“Pull that lever on the rear of the power pack!” d’Arco yelled.

Alice saw the lever he meant. It was pointing down. She yanked back her skirts and gave it a kick to shove it upright. Lights glowed and dials flickered across the pack’s surface. Alice smelled ozone and wondered what Louisa would think of all this.

“That weapon hasn’t been tested!” the female rider called out.

“No time like the present!” d’Arco yelled back. He aimed the rifle at the advancing row of zombies and pulled the trigger.

A hum rose from the power pack. It grew louder and more intense. A bolt of lightning cracked from the rifle barrel and struck one of the zombies full in the chest. The zombie, a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve, sparked and danced in place, then collapsed. The others continued forward.

“All that to hurt one zombie?” Alice said. “A real rifle would do more!”

D’Arco said nothing, but fiddled feverishly with several dials on the rifle, aimed it, and fired again. This time the electric bolt went wide and encompassed most of the zombies in the forefront. They froze, paralyzed but upright, as electricity poured from the strange rifle. The clockworker continued to play while the zombies behind pushed at their immobilized brethren, trying to knock them over. The electric field, however, seemed to be shocking them as well and pushing them back. The clockworker changed his tune yet again, and the zombies shoved harder, even as they groaned in pain. Several dials on the power pack drooped, and Alice had the feeling the electricity wouldn’t last much longer. A bead of sweat ran around d’Arco’s temple.

“To hell with the directive!” he shouted. “Shoot the damned clockworker!”

“We’re trying!” the woman shouted. “We can’t get a clear shot with all these zombies in the way.”

Alice’s eye fell on the calliope. Quickly, she pulled the piece of wood out and tossed it aside. At first glance, the throw seemed to have staved in the side of the machine and broken a steam pipe, but when she looked closer, she could see that one of the fittings had simply popped loose, depriving the calliope of its high-powered steam. She knelt next to it and reached in, but heat from the pipes threatened to sear her hands through her thin evening gloves. Damp steam swirled around her, condensing on her face. A glance down at The Dress told her it was already torn, either from her unexpected ride on the horse or from the moment she had jumped into the wagon. Quickly, she used the tear as a starting point to rip a chunk of thick cloth loose so she could protect her hands. Reaching inside, she managed to push the fittings back together and slide the lock back into place.

D’Arco was still trying to hold the zombies back with the rifle, but already the electricity was weakening. The zombies were starting to move again, and they were nearly close enough to grab d’Arco. He was panting, either from fear or effort; Alice couldn’t tell which. She scrambled to the bench at the strange calliope and, thanking God for the music lessons Father had forced on her, pumped the pedals that worked the bellows.

“I have repaired your machine, Mr. d’Arco,” she called down to him. “What should I play?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, utter surprise written across his face. Clearly, he’d forgotten all about her.

“I hardly suppose they want to hear ‘God Save the Queen,’ ” she prompted, still pumping. “But they are getting closer, sir, and that rifle of yours is nearly played out.”

The electricity sputtered and went out, then started up again, weaker than before. The zombies jerked forward. The grinning clockworker played his jaunty tune.

“A tritone,” d’Arco said. “Play a tritone!”

Alice put her fingers on the keys, still pumping. She could feel the pressure building in the machine. Tiny jets of steam spurted from the calliope’s seams. “Which one?”

“Any one! Just play!”

The rifle spat once more and went out. The zombies lurched forward, reaching for d’Arco. Alice set her fingers on the keys for C and F-sharp-an interval called a tritone because it consisted of exactly three whole steps-and pressed.

The machine roared.

Every zombie in the area clapped hands over its ears and howled. Several collapsed to the ground. The clockworker screamed. He dropped his instrument and the music stopped. Alice pumped the foot bellows and hit the chord again. The clockworker fell to the ground amid the zombies and vanished from her view. Alice played the awful chord again and again. It pounded the air like an angry train whistle. The calliope throbbed beneath her fingers, and her thighs grew tired from the pumping, but she kept going.

At last, she became aware of a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into the face of the female rider. You can stop , she mouthed.

Alice stopped. The calliope groaned to silence, and Alice sat on the bench, panting and sweaty despite the chilly night air.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked. She had a pleasant, round face, chocolate eyes, and light brown hair pulled into a French braid. The nails on her hand were bitten to the quick, and she still wore the leather trousers, though the puffy blouse with the lace at the throat was distinctly feminine.

“I’m… I’m fine,” Alice said. “What happened? Is everyone else all right?”

“Everyone’s fine, thanks to you, love,” the woman said. “You were a wonder! How did you understand Mr. d’Arco’s machine?”

“It was obvious,” Alice replied, “to anyone with a bit of sense. What happened to the zombies?”

“Some are still unconscious, and some have wandered away. Without the clockworker to guide them, they reverted to their normal behavior, poor things.” She gestured at the street behind her. It was empty but for the wreckage of the beer truck and the people on horseback. A single zombie slunk into the darkness, dragging one leg.

“Good heavens,” Alice said. She put a palm to her mouth as elation threatened to overtake her and swell her corsets. A sudden urge to jump up and down and clap her hands like a little girl swept over her, and she barely managed to contain herself. “We did it. We actually did it!”

The woman laughed. “Indeed we did.”

“What about the clockworker, then?” Alice asked.

“He got away.” The woman grimaced. “There was a sewer cover directly beneath him, and he dropped down into it right after you began to play. It was almost as if he’d planned it that way. Perhaps he did.”

Alice blew out a long breath, her elation somewhat deflated. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault, love,” the woman said. “You did far better than we did.”

There it was again-that familiar form of address. It should have bothered Alice, coming from a commoner, even from someone who was probably an Ad Hoc woman, but in the aftermath of the fight, she found it endearing instead, as if she’d been welcomed into a circle of tight-knit friends.