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We came out of the Armoury a markedly different group to that which had entered it. Every desperate man and woman among us now carried a loaded musket with a bayonet. Many wore a belt with a scabbard and sword, and a six-g*n shoved into the belt for good measure. Some favoured an axe or a mace or billy-club. Many had donned breastplates or helmets, and some had gone for both. There were even iron greaves on display. As I watched them surge along the corridor with their dirty faces, splintered teeth, haunted eyes, and rags billowing beneath their armour, their blood-l**t up, their fearful chant echoing around the walls, I was reminded of a zombie movie I’d seen. Yes, our most motley crew looked like a zombie army on the march, but they were moving more quickly and if anything were more
