She fumed and drummed her fingers on the table in frustration. “I should’ve sold the building when I had the chance. Let someone else deal with it. I thought keeping it would be a nice memorial to Father. Maybe I was wrong. I dread going there again. I really do.”
The feel of Pierre’s hand over hers made her look up. She appreciated his support and understanding.
“I know. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.”
Their eyes met, Lizzie knowing that as before, she could count on him every step of the way. It made the task ahead a bit less daunting.
Their drinks finished, she stood, feeling it time they said goodbye. They had to start putting their plan into motion. She accompanied him to the parlor where he picked up his tools and readied to leave when a heavy pounding sounded at the front door. A strong voice called out. “Miss Borden?”
“Are you expecting someone?” Pierre asked.
Lizzie’s brow wrinkled in confusion. She quickly voiced her annoyance. “No, and they could use the door chime.”
Her eyebrows rose as she peeked out the small windowpane on the door. ‘It’s—”
“Miss Borden, open the door please, we need to talk to you.”
She opened the door part way and glared at the imposing figure standing before. Her insides churned as their eyes met. Never had she expected to again be confronted by none other than City Marshal Rufus B. Hilliard—head of the local law enforcement and the man who’d arrested her the year before for her father and stepmother’s murders.
Her voice cool, she asked, “Marshal, how may I help you?”
The lawman returned her stare, his narrowed eyes studying her. “Miss Borden, may we come in?”
She paused but a second before opening the door wide, and welcoming him in with a wave. “For a moment, if you will. I’m sure you know Mr. Moret. We were about to leave.”
The marshal stepped inside, followed by a beefy officer dressed in the standard blue policeman’s uniform, and tipped his hat in greeting. “Mr. Moret. Miss Borden, we have some questions about your father’s building.”
Lizzie sighed. “Yes, I’ve heard there seems to have been some kind of problem there, and I might add, at other places, like right here on my own street.”
The marshal cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed. We’ve had men out all morning fighting groups of these monsters. Several witnesses said they saw a large number of these creatures come out of your late father’s business.”
“Now Mr. Hilliard,” Lizzie cautioned, folding her arms across her chest, “surely you know I’m not responsible for them, or any of the other creatures roaming the streets? You know very well that the building was secured and leased, and I’ll be checking further into this lapse of security.”
The marshal’s gaze never wavered. Lizzie watched his eyes flick to her costume. He skewered her with a look of disdain that would’ve set a weaker person quivering in the knees. She stared right back, never blinking.
“Really, sir, I think you’ll find more answers if you question the people who ignored the laws about harboring the undead, and kept their infected family and friends hidden at home. There were bound to be problems at some point because of that. Have you questioned them, too, or is it just me you thought to bother?”
“We’re questioning everyone, as we should,” Hilliard answered. “It’ll take some time to unravel all this. We may have more questions, of course, as we better understand what’s going on.”
Lizzie nodded and stepped around him to the door. “I’m sure you will. I’ll naturally be of more assistance if I can. Now, if you don’t mind, we were leaving…”
The marshal turned as if to go, and then paused. “Oh, and one more question. Your sister, Miss Emma, is she here? I haven’t seen her in a while. I trust she is well?”
So, this is how it goes? Lizzie thought and swallowed her angry retort. She composed herself. “Emma is resting. I’m sure you don’t want me to wake her?”
“No, there’s no need. That’s all right.”
“Well, if there is nothing else…?”
The marshal touched his hat as he went outside. “That’s all for now. Good day, Miss Borden, Mr. Moret.”
Lizzie peeked out the door and watched the marshal and his man walk down the street. The lawmen waited for the corpse collectors from the St. Alphonsus Society to pass, their carts laden with the newly dead. Their red arm bands with the initials S.A.S. nearly matched the puddles of blood on the street. Lizzie grimaced. She’d never expected to see things this bad again.
She pulled the door shut, heaving a sigh of relief to see the marshal and officer pass out of view. “I sure hope this doesn’t mean he and his men will be snooping around. I don’t need them watching me every minute, from every corner.”
Pierre let out a chuckle. “I don’t think you need worry too much. You did well. I couldn’t have handled him better myself. You know how Hilliard likes to toss his weight around.”
“Hmpf,” Lizzie sniffed. “If he’s too persistent, I may have to contact my attorney, Mr. Jennings, and take some kind of legal action. That man has no reason to bother me.”
Their eyes met, but to his credit, Pierre remained silent. He didn’t have to say anything, Lizzie knew, even if he was probably thinking the same thing she was. She also knew he would protect both her, and Emma, no matter what.
Putting on her hat and grabbing her small drawstring handbag, she opened the door. “Now, I guess I’ll have to go down to Father’s building and see what’s going on there. Care to go with me?”
Pierre’s hand on her arm stopped her. “Not yet you won’t.”
“Oh?” She frowned at him.
“You forget something?” He nodded toward the weapons apron she’d left on the settee.
She looked where he pointed, then down at her fighting costume. “Oh, yes, I guess I should bring it along. Just in case. Give me a moment to change into street clothes.”
After donning a drab blue day dress and putting on a light coat, Lizzie came back into the parlor. She grabbed her father’s leather satchel. “I really didn’t expect to be doing this again so soon.”
She proceeded to wipe off the hatchet before putting it and a couple knives into the inner pockets of the bag. Determination filled her.
“We have to stop this, we have to. We must make sure this never happens again. We have to find a cure so we can end it, once and for all!”
Pierre agreed. “I think we’ll prevail, Lizzie. I’m sure we will.”
She silently prayed he was right.
Chapter Three
Q. During any part of the interview was there any breaking of the voice, or was it steady?
A. Steady.
—Fall River Policeman Philip Harrington,
Interview of Lizzie Borden,
Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 8, 1893
L
izzie forced down the urge to flee, her nervousness evident only by the constant clasping and unclasping of her hands. The horse drew the carriage past the stately spire of St. Mary’s Church and clopped toward downtown.
Pierre, dressed in a black coat and hat, smiled at her and held the reins tightly in his leather-gloved hands. “Lizzie, don’t worry. We’ll find out what’s going on.”
“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of. I fear what we’ll find.”
She fell silent, barely able to keep the bad memories at bay as the horse rounded the corner to Main Street. The handsome black animal shook its head and snorted as it drew near the red brick building that loomed over the corner and took up most of the street.
A testament to her father’s role in the business community, the A. J. Borden building featured large and attractive storefront windows at street level that sparkled in the midday sun. She’d thought the spacious offices and giant storage areas inside would have been put to good use by the new lease-holders, but apparently, she’d been wrong. Horribly wrong.
Pierre directed the carriage into the back courtyard through
the tall iron gates. “Whoa, there, whoa.” He pulled the reins, getting the horse to halt. “I’ll close the gate,” he said, and jumped from his seat.
All Lizzie could do was stare at the building, unable to stop her mind from returning to those final moments when they’d escaped the madness inside. Her heart pounded harder, her panic grew as she remembered them running out, Pierre carrying her unconscious sister… Her nose twitched. She could almost smell the burning flesh and rot and decay from that day.
“Lizzie?”
She started at the sound of Pierre’s voice and looked down, finally seeing him waiting beside her, his hand outstretched to help her from the carriage. “Sorry. I-I was remembering.”
“I’d imagine. In my wildest dreams, I never thought we’d be doing this again.”
“Nor I.”
Taking his hand, she stepped down, and paused, not sure she wanted to go any further. The previous time she’d been here, she’d intended to never set foot in this place again. Except for that one final and unsuccessful search for her father’s papers, she’d kept her vow, having Mr. Jennings handle the leasing and other legal matters, and keep her informed. It had worked well for months. Not once had she suspected that anything had gone awry. None of the arrangements had given her cause for alarm. So, what in the world had gone wrong?
“Are you ready?”
Holding her head high, she took a deep breath and moved toward the back entrance. “I am. All right. Let’s go in.”
Pierre hurried ahead and opened the door, only stepping inside once he deemed it safe. The stench of death wafted in the air. Lizzie followed him, her eyes taking in the large, well-kept room. The back entrance area contained a plain, dark wood desk and chair, which now stood empty. As she walked down the long hallway, a peek into the offices revealed nothing unusual, but she shivered just the same. She could feel the wrongness—and she could smell it. The odor was palpable, settling on her like a second skin.
With each step, she noticed the pong of something bad, like rotten meat, growing stronger. A second later she heard something move. A low eerie keen sounded somewhere to her right. The cries of the undead grew louder. She pulled out her hatchet and bounced on her toes, ready.
Suddenly a short, ugly creature, its face half-gone from rot, crawled out from under the desk. Lizzie grimaced and jumped into action. WHACK. The monster collapsed in pieces.
“You haven’t lost your touch. Well done.”
“Some things you never forget,” she whispered.
More bad odors filled the room. Pierre nodded and pulled out his sword. “Smells like more. Be on guard.”
They crept quietly down the rest of the hall, Pierre holding his sword, Lizzie with her hatchet in hand, both of them checking the offices along the hall. Nothing on this end of the building looked out of place, though Lizzie noticed that the odor had gotten stronger.
“We’re close.” She started coughing. “Something might be up ahead.”
She paused but a moment at the door to the office that had belonged to her father. A quick glance and she felt like she’d stepped back in time. The massive walnut desk remained cluttered, someone having added even more papers on top. The staid floral landscape painting on the wall next to the desk had been replaced, though, with a more modern portrait of a bloomer-dressed woman riding a bicycle. She liked that.
Her steps faltered as she neared the end of the hall, the horrific smells becoming almost overpowering. Just ahead, Pierre paused. He held up a hand as a warning before pointing to his right. A low whimper caused Lizzie to tense, her hands gripping the hatchet so tight her knuckles turned white.
“It’s clear, it’s not one of them,” Pierre whispered, “but someone’s hurt. Wait a minute so I can check it out.” A couple seconds later he called out, “It’s safe. Come in.”
Lizzie rushed ahead and stood at the doorway to the office, taking in the blood-splattered walls in disgust. Then she saw a woman’s legs clad in a long black dress sticking out from behind the desk.”
“Is she—?”
“No. I think she was asking for you.” He lowered his voice. “Be warned, it’s not a pretty sight.”
“Me?” Lizzie looked at him in confusion before moving around the desk and closer to the injured woman. She tried to keep her gasp of horror to herself. The woman, apparently one of the office workers, lay in a pool of blood. Deep gouges covered the woman’s face. Worse, Lizzie looked down and saw that part of the woman’s arm had been chewed off.
How is she even still alive or not transformed yet? Lizzie wondered.
The woman let out deep, rasping breaths, but managed to whisper, “Tell her…”
“Tell her what?” Lizzie asked.
“Lissss. Tell her. Not fault. Not…” Her words stopped as life left her.
“What did she mean? Was she talking about me?”
Pierre shook his head. “I don’t know. I heard her say Lizzie, that’s why I called you. Keep checking. I’ll take care of things here.”
“No,” Lizzie said, her voice firm. “She must’ve wanted to talk to me. I’ll do it.”
A minute later, the room filled with a low growl and the brush of fabric against the floor as the woman-turned-creature raised its head and scrambled around in an attempt to get to its feet.
Lizzie stared at the glazed eyes and the snapping teeth, no longer seeing anything human. All she saw was a monster.
Without hesitation, she raised her hatchet and brought it down on the newly undead creature’s skull. It landed with a loud crack, sending the undead thing falling to the floor in a second, and true, death.
“I’m sorry,” Lizzie whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
She wiped the gory hatchet on the hem of the creature’s dress, surprised to find a piece of paper hidden beneath the fabric. She grabbed it, tucked the sheet and the hatchet in her satchel pocket, wondering if it had anything to do with the other papers on the desk. They’d have to look at them later. She joined Pierre in the hall.
The woman’s words gnawed at her. “It sounded like she was saying it wasn’t her fault? She must’ve been talking about what went on here. So, whose fault was it?”
“I don’t know,” Pierre answered. “Ugh, the stench is horrible. Uh-oh, we have company.”
The question and the prospective answer worried her, but Lizzie knew, even as she dreaded it, that she’d find out soon enough. She coughed and nodded in agreement. “I hear it and I smell it. It’s just ahead.”
They went slowly down the hall, noting an increasing amount of blood, disarray, and chaos in the offices they passed. The sound of scraping and the shriek of furniture being pushed across the floor became louder. At the end of the hall, they peeked around the corner in the corridor. Tears filled Lizzie’s eyes at what looked like a war scene spread out before her—debris thrown all over, shattered furniture, and dozens of broken bodies. The rumble of low growls and snarls drifted their way.
It would be worse the closer they got, Lizzie knew. Then they would definitely see that all was not as it seemed. What almost looked from afar like people waving to get their attention would be seen up close as the ugly, grasping claws of the undead.
His face grim, Pierre gave Lizzie a steady and calculated look. “Ready?”
With a nod, she pulled one of the long knives from inside her bag.
“All right, let’s go.”
Pierre and Lizzie charged down the hall, their knives at the ready. They stabbed at the foul, wiggling creatures crawling toward them. Lizzie’s face was a grim mask as she stabbed at one creature, then turned to do it again to one more, and another after that.
She ignored the gush of black blood and the ugly, surreal snarls of the creatures lining the hall. As she and Pierre made their way further into the building, other monsters shuffled out from their hiding places in hopes of a quick meal, meaning them.
The knife back in its pocket, Lizzie pulled out her hatchet, stood in one place, and waited for the creatures
to shamble toward her. She exchanged a determined glance with Pierre, who nodded in encouragement, his face equally grim.
The ghouls came within inches of them, their bloody mouths working, broken stubs of teeth revealed in each snap of their jaws, their clawed hands reaching. Pierre whacked off a monstrous head, then another. Lizzie lunged, hatchet raised, a fireball of vengeance, determination, and fury that would have scared any of the creatures if they could yet think or reason.
“YIIII!” Lizzie yelled.
She slashed, hacked, and chopped, sending bodies falling to the floor with deep gashes in their heads and necks leaking thick black goo. She swung the hatchet like a madwoman. Bodies fell limp into a grisly pile while several unattached, gore-encrusted heads rolled across the floor as if they were playing a game of devil’s ten pins.
“Be gone!” She cried. “NO MORE! NO MORE!”
Once it ended and every monster had been put to its final rest, Lizzie stopped, the hatchet falling from her fingers. It hit the floor with a clunk.
Spent, her energy gone, she simply stood there, unaware of the filth sprayed across her clothes and smeared on her face.
“Lizzie. It’s all right. It’s over. Let me take you home.”
She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes blank. “Is it? Will it ever be over?”
Grabbing her hatchet, she tucked it in his bag and allowed him to wrap an arm about her shoulders. His voice soft, he urged her on. “We need to get you home. You’ll feel better there. Then we’ll see what to do next.”
“Yes, home.” She sucked in her breath, inured to the stench. “Wait. In Father’s office. There are a bunch of papers and folders on the desk. We should take them. I found another sheet under the body, too. It’s in my pocket. Depending on what we find, we may have to come back. Not that I want to.”
“Never mind that. We’ll deal with it later. Give me your bag. Wait here.”
She handed over the satchel and watched him run down the hall. He came back a minute later, the bag full and more papers in his arms, which he gave to her.
Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter (Book 2): The Axe Will Fall Page 2
