The Axe Will Fall

by C. A. Verstraete

  A whiff of something rotten wafted her way, causing even the horse to snort uneasily. “Smell that?”

  Pierre nodded and pointed toward the adjacent street. The clash of metal, and deep, guttural moans, filled the air. Lizzie watched a large group of creatures stagger past the adjacent corner, the undead mob stumbling toward the approaching group of police. Shots rang out as someone fired on the monsters.

  “Should we go help?” she asked.

  Pierre shook his head. “Not this time. Let them handle it. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing enough fights of our own.”

  The horse clopped toward the waterfront past buildings that looked even more timeworn since the last time she’d been down here. The old row houses, floors divided into living quarters for the immigrant workmen and families from the mills and other nearby businesses, looked even seedier and dingier.

  The sound of crying babies drifted through the open windows, sending a shiver down Lizzie’s back. She could only hope no one in this area had kept their infected family members at home. The tight living quarters and lack of security, combined with the noises that surely would attract and agitate the monsters, made the whole area a nightmare in the making. She prayed that wasn’t the case.

  The carriage turned down the road alongside the Quequechan River. “Uh-oh.” She drew her bag closer, ready to pull out on of her knives if needed. Her hand tightened on the knife handle as the horse snorted, its ears laid back in fear.

  “There,” Pierre whispered, pointing toward a bunch of shrubs steps away from the water’s edge.

  “I see it.”

  Between the scraggly overgrowth and spindly branches, Lizzie spotted a creature that had aged worse than a bottle of cheap wine. The skeletal monster jerked about and opened its decayed mouth, revealing rows of missing and black, rotted stubs of teeth. It moved again and raised its arms. The few remaining strips of skin had aged like leather. They flapped over bones weathered from the elements and darkened with disease.

  Pierre clucked to the horse and turned it to the opposite side of the road, a distance from the shrubbery. Parking the carriage, he jumped to the ground, a knife in each hand. Lizzie followed, taking out the hatchet instead from the satchel hanging at her side, the bag’s long handle looped around her neck and across her body.

  They inched forward, evoking louder, angrier snarls from the creature, which wasn’t alone. More growls came from a second monster shambling down the narrow dirt path. Its boney feet kicked up clouds of dust. It snarled, an ugly grimace on its skeletal face.

  “I’ll get this one, the other one’s yours,” Pierre mumbled.

  He ran toward the creature, knocking the growling thing to the ground with one good, strong kick. The monster let out a final hungry groan before Pierre stabbed his knife into its empty eye socket, ending its un-life forever.

  The rip of fabric told Lizzie the other creature had managed to get loose of the bush’s scraggly branches. It stumbled toward her in a drunken gait, its progress made uneven by the loss of one foot. She watched it stumble along in a slow slide, thump, as it rocked back and forth on one foot and one ankle bone. It would be almost comical if wasn’t so sad, she thought.

  Finally, tired of waiting, she leaped forward, hatchet in hand. She swung, sending the terrible creature’s fleshless skull flying off its body, which fell in a pile of clunking bones. The head rolled and stopped, the teeth still chomping and clattering, until she pulled out her knife and ended its awful cacophony of un-death.

  Pierre looked at her, and then down at the now unmoving, unsmiling skull on the ground. “It’s the stuff of nightmares.”

  “Indeed. I sure hope I don’t have any tonight.”

  Giving her a wicked smile, Pierre edged closer and pinched her waist. “I’d rather you had sweet dreams…”

  His charm was hard to resist, but Lizzie simply smiled and shook her head before edging away slowly. “Now, Pierre, I would, too, but I think a good glass or two of brandy will do the trick.”

  “Ah, Lizzie, it’s never good to drink alone.”

  Lizzie wasn’t sure how she should answer, and grew even more surprised at how flustered he made her feel. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to put him off.

  “You’re looking far-off. Care to share?”

  She eyed his dimpled smile and laughed. “You’re a rogue. I don’t think—” A low growl in the distance caught her ear. “Saved by the growl. It sounds like we have company.”

  “Too bad,” Pierre remarked, unsheathing the knife from the scabbard at his waist. “I really wanted to hear what you had to say.”

  She followed him down the path, her own knife in hand. They both crept along, listening, stopping every few steps, their eyes darting side to side. Ahead stood the remains of what had been known as the Smith warehouse. It had been a wreck when she’d first seen it last year. Now, the building had become even more dilapidated. Time and the elements had taken its toll.

  The rest of the roof had caved in, crushing the skeletal secretaries who’d once slaved here in life over their typewriters. Lizzie didn’t expect to find much else, certainly not the hordes of undead that they’d discovered here last time, but couldn’t be more surprised at the sight before her.

  Around the corner minced what in life had once been a quite stylish grandmother. Remnants of her black ballgown hung in rags across her boney shoulders. Time had not been kind, aging her formerly flawless and pampered complexion to a tight mask of leathery skin. Long white insects skittered out of her eyeless sockets and slithered into the few ratty gray puffs of hair that remained on her skull. With each step, her strand of pearls clanked against her bony breastbone, a mockery of what once had been a privileged life.

  “Oh, dear,” Lizzie whispered, watching the little old she-creature slide toward her. The old thing slid along, one foot still encased in a faded and raveling brocade slipper, the other skeletal foot bare. A ratty fur stole hung around her neck. Her once-fashionable ensemble still included a small beaded reticule dangling from a skeletal arm, the chain caught in a break in the bone.

  Her lips wrinkled in distaste, Lizzie stared at the little undead lady’s progress. This is what bothered her most about the whole situation. It wasn’t the awfulness of the monsters, or the gruesomeness of what they needed to keep animated. It was seeing this once elegant grandmother reduced to such horrors.

  “Looks like someone’s grandmama escaped,” Pierre noted.

  Lizzie watched the way the old lady creature smacked her lips and growled as she slowly approached. “Sad. This is one grandmother who’s not giving out any more kisses. I’d imagine she must’ve been housed somewhere nearby.”

  “I hesitate to think what happened to the rest of her family if she’s out here wandering around.”

  “Hopefully that isn’t the case,” Lizzie said, keeping an eye on the approaching creature.

  With that said, she tightened the grip on her blade and waited. As she expected, it didn’t take long for the she-ghoul to reveal its true nature. Two feet, a foot, and suddenly the monster opened its mouth wider and snarled like a wild animal.

  No longer seeing the old woman it once was, Lizzie lunged forward and slammed the knife into the diseased brain through the bug-infested eye socket. The now truly dead bag of bones dropped to the ground.

  Wiping the knife, Lizzie put it away and stepped over the creature, only slightly disturbed at her utter lack of feeling. But she knew that feelings had nothing to do with disposing of these stumbling, staggering mockeries of God’s greatest gift—life.

  “Are you all right?” Pierre asked in concern.

  She gazed at him. “I’m as I should be. Disgusted, but fine. I don’t think I’ll ever feel totally all right until every single one of these creatures is gone forever.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. Shall we?”

  He pushed a door on the side of the warehouse wider, his action making it fall off the remaining rusted hinge. Setting the door in plac
e, he stepped over the piles of debris, inspecting the decayed and gray wooden floor for any holes. “Watch your step. Floor’s pretty rotted.”

  Lizzie nodded, her eyes scanning the large space. Above, most of the ceiling had fallen or hung in tattered, rotten pieces. The brick of the building itself looked dingy and pocked with dirt. Inside, they picked their way around the vast amounts of garbage, broken furnishings, and bones of the former workers. It soon became apparent that nothing else of interest remained.

  “Looks like that’s as far as we go. We should head back.”

  Memories of their last time here plagued her. She grimaced, trying to keep the horrific scenes at bay, trying desperately to forget. Images flashed in her mind… a garish hand reaching for her… the snarl on a creature’s face. She closed her eyes, willing the past away.

  “Liz, are you sure you’re all right?”

  She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Yes. I’ll be fine once we get out of here.”

  Each of them remained in their own thoughts, the ride back home quiet, except for the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves. Lizzie noticed that the streets had quieted as well, littered by the decaying bodies of the undead. The battles had ended, for now.

  She admired the stately spire of St. Mary’s Church on Second Street as the carriage passed. No longer welcome at her old Congregational church—admit it, her mind whispered, they shunned you. Moved away when you sat down like you had the plague—she’d taken to walking occasionally to the Catholic house of worship outside regular mass hours, just to sit in the quietness and reflect. It eased her heart and soul. The kindly priest had stopped a couple times and talked with her, offering her a prayer and a sense of God’s grace. She’d appreciated his ministrations more than he knew.

  Trudging up the hill, the horse seemed to sense they were near their destination and picked up its ears. Pierre pulled the carriage to a stop at the side of the house and tied the horse’s reins to a hitching post until the stable boy came to get him.

  Lizzie got out, followed by Pierre, and went to the porch. She paused, her hand on the doorknob.

  “Pierre, the door. It’s open. I usually lock it.”

  “Maybe you forgot.”

  “I could’ve, I suppose.”

  She shrugged, thinking it possible, what with all the rush and turmoil of the returning creatures, and her own mixed-up feelings. Once inside, she took off her jacket and dropped her satchel on the settee. “Would you like some—” She stopped again, her sense of unease growing.

  “Lizzie, what is it?”

  She looked around, not sure what was wrong, when she noticed the basement door was ajar. Her feeling of something not being right grew stronger. She pushed the door fully open and gasped as she looked down at the top step.

  “No,” she muttered. “No, no!”

  She pushed the item on the step aside, turning only briefly to give Pierre a panicked look before running down the rest of the stairs. He bent down to pick up the glass bottle, then bounded after her.

  At the bottom of the steps, Lizzie stood motionless. Then she began to scream like one possessed. “No, Emma, NO! EM-AAAAAAAAA!”

  Chapter Six

  Q. You did not find anything in Miss Lizzie’s room, as I understand you?

  A. No, sir.

  —Testimony of Fall River Marshal Rufus B. Hilliard,

  Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 14, 1893

  L

  izzie rushed toward the steel cage she’d had constructed when she and Emma first moved into the house, the idea being it would be there as protection if they ever needed it. Never, of course, had she envisioned using it to house her own infected sister. And now? Even that hadn’t been enough to keep Emma safe.

  She eyed the open cage door and the broken items on the floor in disbelief. Now in full panic, she raced around the room looking in corners, opening cabinet doors, tossing things around for some clue—or her sister’s corpse.

  “Emma! Emma! Someone’s taken her! EM-MA!!”

  Pierre ran over to Lizzie and grasped her arms. “Lizzie, wait. Look at this!”

  She stared at the glass bottle and paper scrap he’d picked up from the step, before glaring at him. “What? We have no time for that. We have to find Emma! We have to find her now!”

  “Look at it,” he told her. “It means something.”

  She did, and then she looked up at him, her answer coming out in gulping sobs “The-the bottle. It’s a threat. The mayor’s cronies. They may be planning to revive their evil business.”

  “All right, that’s a start. We have a possible idea of what’s going on. Now, what about this slip of paper?”

  The letters on the small scrap swam before her eyes. She blinked back the tears and took a deep, calming breath. “Pla, play, a door, I guess it says. I-I don’t get it. What is it? What does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me have it, I’ll see if I can find someone to look into it.”

  She nodded, not really hearing him as she frantically scanned the floor looking for something, anything, that could tell her what had happened to her sister. “That’s fine.”

  Taking one last glance at the mess behind her, she noticed the long line of dirt on the floor, and how it stopped at the staircase. Upon closer examination, she saw something on the side of the stairs and bent down to grab it.

  “I found something.” She held up the postal stamp-sized piece of cloth, the edges torn and frayed, and rubbed her fingers across it. “It looks like a piece from a cotton sheet or some cloth like that. Emma had to be hard to control, and they’d be afraid of being bitten or scratched.”

  “Makes sense,” Pierre agreed. “They probably wrapped her up somehow.”

  The idea made Lizzie’s blood boil. “So they wrapped her up and carried her upstairs. How dare they! If two men held her, and the sheet likely was wound tight enough for her not to move, it would’ve looked like they were bringing out a wrapped rug for cleaning. No one would’ve paid much attention. They had better not harm her!”

  She stomped up the stairs, pointing out the trail of small pieces of dirt that had been dropped. It ended at the front door. “I didn’t notice that before at all,” she said.

  Her anger growing, she followed Pierre into the kitchen, grabbed the tea kettle, filled it with water, and slammed it on the stove with a loud bang. She turned on the flame before going into the other room. A minute later, she stomped back in, her weapons apron and coat in hand.

  Then she stopped, her hands clenched, her anger growing. She hadn’t been this mad since—well, since the trial ended. Her anger bloomed like a fan put to a flame. Oh, she’d put on a good front. Initially, she’d been overwhelmed with the sheer horror of what her parents had become, and her agonizing involvement in their deaths. On trial, she’d been terrified, afraid for her very life. But now…

  Her breathing came faster as the memories unfolded. She remembered the scornful looks of the people around her, even from friends she’d known for years.

  She recalled the last morning she’d gone to her old church, and the way she’d felt sitting there alone.

  There were the stares and whispers on the few occasions she’d been brave enough to go shopping in town by herself.

  Her hands gripped the back of the chair tighter.

  “How could they? How dare they? How dare all of them!”

  Unable to stop herself, Lizzie gave in to her rage, pulling the hatchet from her bag. “EMMA! WHERE IS SHE?”

  “Whoa!” With a curse, Pierre jumped back, letting the kitchen chair fall to the floor. He turned to her, hands out, his voice soft and soothing, in an attempt to placate and help calm her. “Lizzie, Lizzie, easy there. Don’t worry, we’ll find her. We’ll bring her home safe.”

  “They have her now!” she cried. “Emmmm-a!”

  Pierre’s yell of “Lizzie, wait!” went unheard. She raised the hatchet and brought it down. It landed with a loud clunk in the lustrous wood of the carved oak kitchen c
hair. “EMMMAAAA!”

  With a shriek of rage, Lizzie yanked the hatchet out of the chair back and brought it down again, and again, and again.

  WHACK. WHACK. WHACK.

  She hit and hit until finally, the chair broke into pieces, and every splinter and chunk, along with the hatchet, fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Her anger finally spent, she stood there, her arms hanging loosely at her sides like a rag doll that had lost its stuffing. Then she began to shake like she’d been hit by a chill, or touched by one of them.

  Pierre rushed over and enveloped her in a tight hug. He held her close and whispered to her, waiting for her tremors to stop.

  “There, there, it’s all right, Lizzie, it’s all right. You’ve had a big shock. You’ve been holding in a lot, for a long, long time. That’s it, let it out.”

  Finally, she took a deep breath, and lifted her head from his shoulder, apologizing before moving away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Lizzie, it’s all right.”

  She stood there yet in a daze and stared at the mess, the floor littered with broken chair splinters and pieces of wood. “I-I should clean this up.”

  Pierre took her by the shoulder and gently led her to the other chair. Once she sat, he hurriedly poured a finger of whiskey into a glass and brought it to her.

  “Here, drink. Never mind that. Drink all of it. Go lie down for a while. I’ll clean this up.”

  Gulping down the drink, she wiped her teary eyes and rose, wobbling slightly. She shook her head at his outstretched hand and shuffled forward, her slow movements, dull expression, and ache in her temples nearer to someone suffering from neurasthenia, instead of her usual robust self.

  She raised a hand and caressed his before continuing into the other room. “Thank you for standing by me. I’m so sorry.”

  He followed her into the parlor, where she lay down on the chaise lounge and pulled a quilt over herself. She closed her eyes and soon fell into a deep sleep, never seeing the look of concern on his face as he watched her for several minutes.