The Axe Will Fall

by C. A. Verstraete

  The light outside had already faded. It cloaked the room in a dimness that matched the growing darkness in her soul by the time Lizzie opened her eyes. She looked around in alarm, her heart pounding, until she made sense of her surroundings.

  Pierre stood at the doorway, waiting for her to acknowledge him so he wouldn’t frighten her, before walking forward and turning up the gas lights on the polished side table. “Feel better?”

  She nodded. “Yes, thank you. Pierre, I want to apologize—”

  He waved his hand at her to stop as he set down the small tray with a glass of orange juice and a dish of cookies. “Here, have something to eat. You’ve only had tea and a biscuit all day.”

  She munched on the oatmeal cookies, too weary to object. Her eyes misted at the memory of her sister bringing her baskets of fresh-made cookies during the many lonely days, and months, in jail. She put the thought in the past, where it belonged.

  “Pierre, I-I can’t thank you enough for staying and helping me. I’m surprised you didn’t leave while you had the chance. I acted like I’d escaped from the lunatic asylum.”

  He sat and took her hand. “Don’t give it a second thought. You’ve been so strong through everything. Today was a lot to take. I think I’d have reacted much the same.”

  She swung her legs over the side of the lounge chair, brushing the crumbs off her hands, before getting to her feet. “I think I’ll change. You really don’t have to stay if you have other things to do.”

  “Nothing pressing,” he said, and smiled. “How about I take you to dinner? We can go to a small, quiet place I know where no one will disturb us.”

  “All right, I am rather hungry. I’ll be back in a—” The peal of the front door chime interrupted her. “Now who is that?”

  She gave Pierre a perplexed look before going to the door and peering out the small window. Just as quick, her demeanor changed as she flung open the door with a glare.

  “Marshal, how can I help you?”

  Marshal Hilliard stepped in. His face stern, he motioned to the tall officer beside him, who approached her, steel handcuffs in hand.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us,” the marshal said. “You’re under arrest for harboring an undesirable, failing to notify officials, and breaking city ordinances.”

  Lizzie blustered and protested as the officer came closer. “Please, what is this about? Why are you doing this? You should be finding the men who’ve taken my sister instead!”

  “Miss Borden, please. If you had told me the truth from the beginning, we wouldn’t be doing this, would we? Come along quietly.”

  Pierre stepped in and tried to smooth things over. “Lizzie, I’m sorry. I had no idea this would happen when I called to report your house had been broken into. I was trying to get help in locating your sister.”

  She stared at him. “You called them?”

  He nodded. “I hope you understand. And Marshal, please, you don’t need to cuff her. I’m sure she’ll go along with you. Won’t you, Lizzie?”

  All she could do was glare. She felt her cheeks flush as she tried to hold back another angry outburst. How could he? He knows perfectly well how I feel about the marshal, and that I intended to never, ever set foot inside a jail again. We didn’t need any outside interference. How in all that is sacred could he do this?

  Inside she fumed, but after a few minutes she took a deep breath, and gave a curt nod. No need to make matters worse.

  Refusing to look at him, Lizzie had only one thing to tell Pierre before she stepped out of the house between the officer and the marshal, her back straight, head held high.

  “Yes, I’ll go along. Pierre, please call my attorney, Mr. Jennings.”

  Chapter Seven

  Q. How long did Miss Emma remain that morning in the room?

  A. She remained, sir, from twenty minutes of nine o'clock until you came to the door.

  —Testimony of Hannah Reagan,

  matron at Central Police Station,

  Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 14, 1893

  I

  f she’d felt humiliated about being dragged back into the Central Police Station, Lizzie felt ten times worse noting the same matron was there to again escort her down the long, dim hall to her dank, dark cell.

  The stout matron gave her a firm shove into the dingy cell, her pudgy hands quick to turn the weathered key in the lock. The door lock clicked into place with a heavy clunk.

  The woman walked away with a chuckle. “Don’t worry about anyone botherin’ you. No one else is on this side. Have a good night now.”

  Lizzie sunk down on the rock-hard bed, moving around in an attempt to find one small spot of comfort on the board-like mattress. She muttered to herself in hopes of keeping her spirits up.

  “All right, I’ve been through this before, and for a much longer time. I’m sure Mr. Jennings will get me out soon, hopefully tonight, definitely tomorrow. I can stand it until then. I’ll be fine.”

  Lying on the bed, the scratchy, thin blanket pulled over her, Lizzie shut out the dirty walls surrounding her and tried to nap, or at least turn off her thoughts. But all she could think of was Pierre—and this time it wasn’t with fondness.

  “I’m a fool,” she muttered. “Make that an old fool. I haven’t learned enough about men in my life, and I certainly didn’t gain any knowledge with my last experience, did I? I’ve been right about not letting anyone get too close. The minute I let down my guard, even a little, they do something like this.”

  She pounded her fists against the lumpy, unyielding mattress, her resolve growing about not having one more thing to do with Pierre. One side of her wanted to forgive him—the weak side, her mind whispered—but not when it came to something as serious as this. Not when it involves Emma.

  After twenty minutes of fighting, arguing with herself, and praying that Emma was somewhere safe, Lizzie finally fell into a restless doze. She wrestled with her uneasy dreams when a loud scrape jolted her awake. Heart pounding, she stayed still and listened, unsure about what she’d heard. Then something clanged metal on metal and echoed down the hall.

  The night matron must be making the rounds, she thought. She listened and jumped when a voice broke the silence.

  “You awake in there, Lizzie? We got somethin’ to settle.”

  Lizzie gulped, and rushed to her cell door to try and peek out. “What do you want? What are you doing?”

  A harsh laugh sounded. A couple minutes later, the heavyset woman came to the cell door, an angry scowl on her face, and shoved the key into the lock. It opened with a loud click.

  “What do you want?” Lizzie repeated. “You and I don’t have any argument.”

  “Yes,” the woman snarled, pulling a well-used wooden nightstick from a leather pouch at her side. “Yes, we do. You and your family, your father, let all those monsters out in our city.”

  Lizzie had no idea what to say to calm the woman or address her pain. Words wouldn’t do much now, she figured.

  “Look,” Lizzie reasoned, “I’m sorry, I am, but this won’t help your situation. Why don’t you go back to your office…?”

  “Go back? They’re everywhere! It’s starting again, or maybe it never ended! You hear that?”

  Several minutes passed, Lizzie marking them silently, when a different sound broke the still, night air. It sounded low, deep, and eerie—and enough like a moan—to make the hairs on the back of her neck shoot up in alarm.

  No, surely it can’t be. Not again! It just can’t be happening!

  But it was.

  UNNNNHHHH.

  Something scraped against the floor in the distance. Lizzie gulped and listened.

  Scrape. Slide. Scrape. Slide.

  The woman stood there huffing, her anger building. “IT’S YOUR FAULT!” She yelled. “Those-those ghastly monsters are your fault! You and that wretched father of yours! I lost my father because of you!”

  Suddenly, a loud bang, like a door slamming open, sounded at the e
nd of the hall. The woman stopped yelling and stared at Lizzie, her eyes as big as dinner plates. The cell door swung open wider as the woman screamed and jumped back. “No! Oh, no!”

  “What is it?” Lizzie asked. “What?”

  Her panic in full bloom, Lizzie jumped back and began searching the small cell and its few accommodations for something, anything, that she could use as a weapon. She cursed as she searched. Oh, shades of yesterday. How can this be happening again?

  The iron bed frame served no use unless she could pull it out of the floor and take it apart—with her bare hands yet. Luckily, this time, she’d been put in a cell with a small wooden table. She eyed it, trying to see if she could manage to get it apart, even as the eerie sounds grew closer.

  Slide. Scrape. Slide. Scrape. UNNNHHHH.

  Ever more anxious, Lizzie crept to the cell door. She tried to peer out without making any noise or letting whatever it was get a glimpse of her. She peeked around the edge of the door frame and gasped in shock. Uniform hanging in shreds, the former head jailer-turned-monster stumbled toward her. His mouth curled in a permanent ugly leer, he let out an angry snarl and shuffled a degree faster. The area filled with the strong, disgusting scent of rot and decay.

  UNNNHHHH.

  Lizzie fought with herself on whether to stay here or go. But go where? She peeked again to the left, noting the matron’s failed attempt to hide her bulk in a door alcove across the way.

  “That won’t work for long,” Lizzie muttered, her disgust growing. “The woman comes in here and I bet she’s the one who left the door open in the first place!”

  Now more frantic, Lizzie peered out again. The creature seemed to notice her presence this time and growled, waving clawed fingers in her direction. With no time to spare, Lizzie decided to take a chance. She slammed the table against the stone wall as hard as she could. It broke into dozens of pieces with a loud crack.

  She picked up two of the loosened table legs, shoved them in the waist of her dress, and grabbed two other dagger-like shards of wood. As she expected, her action evoked louder groans from the monster and unfortunately prompted the matron to yell.

  “Help! Get me out of here, help!” the woman cried. “It’s getting closer!”

  Lizzie cursed silently and ran back to the cell door, seeing the creature only feet away. With nothing to lose, and hoping she retained some element of surprise, she sprang out of the doorway and rushed the creature. It swiped and grabbed at her with clawed hands, but luckily, Lizzie was quicker. She spun out of reach and jabbed, pushing the jagged piece into the creature’s temple. The creature gave one last growl and then fell in a pile, black ooze flowing from the wound. The scene was too much for the matron, who cried out once before falling over in a faint on the cold, stone floor.

  “Let’s go,” Lizzie called. “We have to go. Get up.”

  She shook the woman’s shoulder, her alarm growing as more undead noises came from the exit. Her next shove was harder. “Come on, get up. GET UP!”

  “What do you…?” The woman stared in the other direction. “No, no…”

  In those scant few minutes, Lizzie saw that the lone creature had been joined by two others. And she could see several more grouping behind them.

  “Hurry, get up, get up!” She pushed the woman. “We have to go. Do you have keys to the door at the other end?”

  Lizzie helped the woman up and pulled her by the arm. “Hurry, a key! Do you have a key?”

  The woman staggered beside her, clearly not of much use, as she fumbled through a bunch of tarnished silver keys on a large ring. “Uh, yes, the key…”

  Exasperated, Lizzie stopped, whirled the woman around, and turned her in the direction of the now larger group of horrific creatures coming their way. “Look at them. LOOK! We need to get out of here. FIND THAT KEY!”

  Lizzie’s panic seemed to give the woman a much-needed push to focus. She lumbered to the opposite end of the hall away from the approaching creatures, sorting through the keys as she went. “This one, infirmary, this one, no, this one…”

  Finally at the door, she started pushing keys in the lock, trying one key after another and then removing it as each fit but wouldn’t turn.

  “Hurry!” Lizzie yelled. “Come on, I can’t guarantee I’ll get them all and protect you as well. Hurry!”

  The roars louder and the smells getting ever more unpleasant, Lizzie coughed and urged the woman on. “Hurry, hurry!”

  “I’m trying,” the woman sobbed. “I’m trying!”

  Finally, the monsters faced them from only about six feet away. The matron tried another key and yelled in triumph as it twisted fully. The door pushed open. “It worked, I’ve got it!” she yelled.

  “Great, let’s go!” Lizzie pushed the woman through the doorway into a small office. She took one last look at the creatures and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked. She met the matron’s eyes. The woman stared at her, her face sad, before turning away. Lizzie knew how the woman felt. She couldn’t fault her for being angry.

  The low buzz of people talking met Lizzie’s ears as she pushed open the opposite door. She stood still, surprised to find herself in a hall just behind the front desk where a mob of people clamored for help.

  Someone calling her name broke into Lizzie’s observation. “Liz, over here. This way!”

  She looked up, glad to find her attorney, Mr. Andrew Jennings, waving in her direction. She hurried around the counter and pushed through the crowd.

  “You’re released, follow me.” He grabbed her elbow and led her through the crowd. “Keep walking.”

  “What is all this?” she asked, once they made it outside to the front stone steps of the station. Alarmed, she observed the growing crowds and the general chaos. Horses snorted, dozens of people milled about. In the distance, she heard the sounds of the police fighting, and the nerve-wracking keen of the escaped undead.

  Jennings frowned and shook his head. “A mess is what this is, a royal mess. I don’t know how the police will get on top of things without help. They waited too long to get things under control. Where have all those society members of yours gone?”

  Lizzie stared at him as he moved her ahead, directing her to his carriage parked among several others at the edge of the walk at the side of the police station.

  “I’ve seen some of them out collecting the dead. Otherwise I wouldn’t know what the St. Alphonsus Society is doing these days.”

  Nor did she care. How she’d been treated by the members—make that one member—of the once-secret group that had been handling the crisis still rankled.

  “They pushed me out long before all this happened. Not that I needed them. Emma and I managed just fine.”

  She didn’t state the obvious—that it hadn’t been fine. Not at all. Regret gnawed at her again. Looking back did nothing, but still… If only I hadn’t let Emma try to be so daring.

  To his credit, the attorney simply ignored her statement. Helping her inside the carriage first, he then took his seat and gave the driver her address.

  “There is one thing I need to tell you,” Lizzie mentioned.

  “Oh?”

  “I think this whole resurgence is linked to our old mayor and his cronies. I’m sure of it. I’m glad he was arrested, but there’s no telling how many others were in on his scheme. I found what looked like an old shipping record signed by my father, but it’s dated three months ago.”

  “Hmm, do you have that record yet?”

  “No, Mr. Moret gave it to the marshal. Of course now I’m not so sure that was a wise decision.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to Hilliard. We’ll find out what’s at the bottom of this.”

  “Thank you, that’s reassuring.”

  “As for this other mess,” Jennings told her, his face stern, “it appears people have been checking into the police station in droves, reporting burglaries.”

  Lizzie couldn’t help but gasp at this news. “Burglaries?”

  He nodded
. “Yes. Dozens of homes, maybe thirty, forty, much more I’m sure, were broken into, and their infected family members were either let loose, have disappeared, or maybe were taken. Sound familiar?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. So, they’ve begun their onslaught. I truly fear for what’s next.”

  Chapter Eight

  Q. Did you find any weapon or any indication of blood on any part of the premises on the outside of the house?

  A. We did not.

  —Testimony of Michael Mullaly,

  Fall River Policeman,

  Trial of Lizzie Borden, June 9, 1893

  B

  ack home, Lizzie relaxed only for a moment, glad for her attorney’s help in researching whatever was on that piece of paper, and finding out more about that shipping record. It wasn’t much to go on she knew, but she preferred to have him look into it, just in case. She hesitated to admit the reason why, but realized it couldn’t be avoided. Just in case my relationship with Pierre is over.

  Grabbing her leather satchel, she checked that her weapons were in order before she went out on her own. Should she call one of the young men who had chauffeured her before, or take her chances in getting a public trolley? Whatever she did, it was time she got a better idea of how widespread the resurgence really was.

  She went into the parlor, the sight of the basement door giving her pause. Most importantly, she had to find Emma. But how? And where should she start?

  The silence in the house mocked her. Not even the light click of the dog’s nails against the wood kitchen floor, and his lapping water, gave her any comfort. She listened, honing in on the clink of the boiler and the hiss of the gas lights. It almost seemed normal, but for the underlying sounds she no longer heard. The silence made her nervous; even more so now than during the trial.

  Opting to go catch a trolley, she sighed and stepped out on the porch. She locked the door and turned, surprised and even more annoyed, to find Pierre at the wrought iron gate. Head high, she walked down the steps, thanking him with a silent nod as he held the gate open for her.