Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter (Book 1): Lizzie Borden, Zombie Hunter

by Verstraete, C. A.

  “Maybe you could’ve checked whatever this is on your own and let us know the results. Or you might’ve taken Emma. You could’ve left me out of it since you insist on getting her involved in all this.”

  John shook his head, not answering, though the vein throbbing on the side of his temple told her the question had gotten under his skin. Her protests faded, even if her anger only grew.

  The horse clip-clopped down the road clouded in pockets of fog. The London-type morning did nothing to improve her mood, instead making her think of that strange Robert Louis Stevenson book about an evil Mr. Hyde lurking in the shadows, ready to jump out at them. She tried to push the thought away.

  Thick, leafy tree branches and clumps of weeds hung over the path. The river itself looked dark and murky. Lizzie sniffed at the underlying musty smell of mold and decay hanging in the air. This forgotten path seemed even more ill-kempt than the one by Father’s previously unknown warehouse.

  “If you must know,” John said, “we’re on the other side of the river, precisely a couple miles down from your father’s warehouse. It turns out there are quite a few of these forgotten buildings along the river paths. A lot of these places went out of business, or were abandoned—or so everyone thought.”

  He pulled the carriage to the side and stopped. “Take a look at that paper I gave you.”

  The paper’s crinkle sounded unusually loud as Lizzie pulled it from her coat pocket. She flashed John a look of alarm.

  “Don’t worry. No one will hear us here.”

  Unfolding it, she stared at a neatly typewritten list of addresses and names. A few of the names seemed somewhat familiar. She wracked her brain, trying to think of where she might’ve seen them. Nothing came to her, but she vowed to have another look at Father’s papers at home. Though it could be coincidental until they had absolute proof, she wondered if any matched the first set of names and initials on the papers from the warehouse.

  John jumped down, hooked the horse’s reins over a tree branch, and held out a hand to help her from the carriage. He then turned to Emma, who instead went to the horse and took the reins. “If neither of you mind, I think I should stay here and watch the horse. Just in case.”

  “Good idea,” John said. “We should be back shortly.”

  Lizzie studied the paper as they walked. “Where did you get this?”

  “I asked somebody I know in the assessor’s office for addresses of unused, closed, or abandoned buildings by the river. This is what he came up with, though there may be others we overlooked.”

  A growing feeling of apprehension hit her as they trudged forward and pushed their way through the overgrown brush and weeds. She yanked her coat sleeve from a branch it snagged on and cursed the burrs that would have to be picked off later.

  They remained silent and fought through the brush. Her mind jumped from wondering what they’d do, to questioning if all this was even worth it, and then to the most unexpected of thoughts—typewriting machines. Previously, she’d seen several officially dressed young women walking downtown clad in their crisp office suits and serious looking blouses with tied cravats. Lizzie had often thought it a preferable profession for a young woman if she could obtain the training. So, she’d promoted it as such to the ladies in the Women’s Christian Temperance Union as a way to help young working and immigrant women improve their lot.

  John’s call of alarm broke into her woolgathering. “Liz, watch out!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from a deep rut in the road.

  Lizzie took a breath, knowing she might have ended up with a serious sprain or broken a bone from a fall like that. “Thank you.”

  “Pay attention,” he ordered, pointing ahead. “There’s the side door. I think that bank of windows is part of the main workroom. Hopefully we find it empty.”

  The warehouse was drab and gray, the tired façade sporting pitted, broken bricks darkened to beige and black instead of the once bright pink and red hues. A thick coat of grime and decay, painted over time by nature’s brush, covered the shoulder-height row of large windows. The whole place looked dejected and forlorn.

  John edged to the windows where the dirt hadn’t totally taken over, which provided a glimpse into the rundown interior. Time had stood still as wooden benches and tables became covered by piles of thick cobwebs. The floor disappeared beneath layers of dust. A couple machines and a giant fixture of some kind had collapsed under the weight of neglect.

  Several worn boxes stacked under a broken table caught Lizzie’s eye, as did the pieces of glass scattered on the floor. Her eye caught the partial word BOTT written on one box. Saddened, she followed John as he traipsed through the overgrowth to a smaller set of windows.

  He stepped closer to the wall and peeked in one of the first windows. “Maybe the offices are here. Let’s see if they look any different.” He fell silent and then out a low whistle. “It appears they had a big problem.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Lizzie agreed, wishing the macabre office scene could be erased from her mind, though she knew it could now never be unseen. Heavy wooden cabinets and desks had been overturned, their paper contents spilling out and across the floor like typewritten intestines. The room looked like a riot had taken place. And maybe it had, given the rotted remains of several of the undead lying on the floor and hanging over furniture.

  Even worse, many of the now-skeletal remains sat perched behind their typewriting machines, still dressed in the raggedy remainders of their professional suits, all ready to do the day’s work. It gave her an entirely different view of the job.

  “Looks like the workers never had a chance,” she shared, her voice sad.

  They turned to leave but paused when something rustled in the bushes. John motioned her to be alert and brought up his gun. Unknown to him, she pulled the small revolver he’d given her previously from her jacket pocket and held it by her side, out of sight.

  To her surprise, the creature that emerged from the overgrowth remained almost professionally presentable, if not for the hole in its cheek, the gashes on its arms, and a distinct rotten odor. It wasn’t unusual except so far, Lizzie hadn’t yet seen a she-creature like this one. Yes, her. Un-death doesn’t discriminate, and while she was sure they existed, in her forays outside all she’d encountered so far had been male undead, with the exception of Mrs. Borden, of course.

  “Careful,” John warned.

  She stared at the creature, even more stunned when it markedly increased its pace despite its one shoe on-one bare foot gait. In those few quickly passing seconds, it moved close enough that they met each other’s gaze, her hazel eye staring at the she-creature’s film-covered eye.

  “LIZ, MOVE!”

  John’s yell broke Lizzie from her unusual fascination with the creature. It lunged. Lizzie jumped aside in the nick of time, and then she did the unexpected. Whirling around, she cocked the hammer, turned back, and took aim. Steadying herself, she fired. BLAM! The round hit perfectly in the she-creature’s temple. It crumpled, and with a thud and a rattle of old bones, fell in a gory pile inches from Lizzie’s feet.

  “Ick.” She gagged and kicked aside the creature’s once fashionable shoe. She could feel another good griping session coming on. “I think I’ve had enough for today.”

  John stood there and gawked at her. “Well, damn. You’ve become quite the shot.”

  “As you can see, your instructions paid off. I still don’t know why you brought me out here, though. Can we go now?”

  He gave an exasperated sigh as he put away his own gun. “Damn it, Liz, look around.”

  His demeanor got her attention. She did as he suggested, carefully scrutinizing the wretched remains of the once human woman lying at her feet. Her eyes took in the worn-down building. Images of the office, its desks, contents, and equally wretched former workers, filled her thoughts.

  She threw up her hands in exasperation, unclear what he wanted. “What? What am I looking…?” She paused as the different possibilities flashe
d through her mind. Then it hit her. “Wait, the typewriting machines. It’s like the telephone at home. Father wanted nothing to do with any kind of ‘modern tomfoolery’ as he called it. There was not one of those machines in his office at that warehouse, was there?”

  John nodded his encouragement. “Go on.”

  “Yet, yes, the desk was filled with handwritten notes and ledgers, but he also had typewritten letters and records. He had no intention of getting his own, but he still needed proper correspondence at times. When he did, he turned to someone else like…who owns the building here?”

  Paper rustled as John took back the list and perused the names. “Looks like a Samuel Smith.”

  She nodded, warming to the subject. “Maybe Father contacted Mr. Smith, or someone else, for the needed correspondence. Somehow the two of them conspired to put the creatures to doing other kinds of tasks in the factory. One day something happened and it backfired.”

  Lizzie pretended not to hear when John chimed in again with his ever-practical lawyerly side. “It sounds good in theory, but we need proof, solid proof,” he cautioned.

  “We have to go inside.” She grabbed his arm. “We have to examine that pile of papers in there. We need to see if there is something, anything, that ties the two of them together.”

  John cleared his throat and pulled out his pocket watch, opening the burnished gold cover with a soft click. “Well, as much as I like your idea, and think you’re right, we’ve run out of time. I’ll have to come back, or have someone else do it. We need to get you home in a hurry. You have to be at the inquest,” he glanced at his pocket watch, “in less than three hours, like it or not.”

  She sighed. “There is nothing to like about it. Nothing at all.”

  They hurried back to the carriage, where Emma fretted and worried. “What happened? I heard shooting. Are you all right?”

  Lizzie gave a small smile and grasped her sister’s hand. “Yes, yes, we’re fine. We came upon one of those creatures, a female this time. She possibly worked for Father, doing his typewriting. I’ll tell you about it on the way home.”

  As John turned the carriage, she showed Emma the list and shared her suspicions about the mass of papers they had left behind.

  “Well, then.” Emma shook her head and stared at John, then at Lizzie. “Once you’re done testifying today, I should come back here and help pack up those papers. John can send someone to pick me up. I insist. Since you want help with the paperwork, then this is a good place for me to start.”

  No amount of arguing, Lizzie knew, would budge Emma once she’d made up her mind. It would have to do. But her glee at besting John quickly faded as he pulled the carriage in front of the house.

  “Be forewarned,” he said. “I’d think he might wait until the inquest is over, but if I know anything about Marshal Hilliard, he’s prompt. He’ll get some judge out of bed if necessary to get the proper papers for an arrest.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Jurors for the said Commonwealth on their oath Present—That Lizzie Andrew Borden of Fall River in the County of Bristol…on the fourth day of August in the year eighteen hundred and ninety-two, in and upon one Andrew Jackson Borden, feloniously, willfully and of her malice aforethought, an assault did make…

  —Murder Indictment,

  Commonwealth vs. Lizzie Andrew Borden,

  Commonwealth of Massachusetts, 1892

  August 11, 1892

  L

  izzie spent the morning mumbling through the last of the inquest testimony, her nerves drawn so tight she feared she’d explode into a million little pieces. Afterward, she, Emma, and John sat in the parlor at home, everyone tense and silent. Waiting.

  Lizzie had no idea if what she said had made any sense, especially after Doctor Bowen gave her another shot. She began to worry about his frequent visits, but suspected she need not give it much thought. After all, she wouldn’t be getting such treatment when they sent her to jail. There, she acknowledged it—jail. She’d been avoiding the idea, not wanting to dwell on it.

  The blare of the newly installed telephone made Lizzie jump from where she perched uncomfortably on the parlor chair. Emma reached over to grab her hand as John rose to answer. Lizzie felt near to choking at his grave demeanor.

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” John hung up the phone’s clunky ear piece and turned, his face grim. “Marshal Hilliard is on his way. They’re coming to arrest you.”

  Her deepest worry and fears had come to life. Lizzie’s heart jumped, but then she simply got to her feet with a deep sigh, her mind in a dark cloud.

  This was it.

  She remained silent as Emma hurried her upstairs to change and mentally prepare. Emma pushed her around like a puppet, laying out her best black mourning dress and hat, before going to wait outside as she splashed cold water on her face and hurriedly changed into fresh undergarments. Lizzie stood, eyes closed, as Emma fastened the dress’s back buttons. She pat a touch of pink rouge on Lizzie’s pale face and smeared on some lip pomade.

  “Lizzie, I’ll be there for you, every step of the way,” Emma assured her, taking Lizzie’s hand in hers. “Don’t worry, if…” She paused and continued, her voice breaking, “if the trial is set, know you have to but look up and see me sitting there. None of us will let you go through this alone.”

  Lizzie nodded and embraced Emma, words still failing her as she nervously picked up her reticule and checked that her hair was in place. After all, what could she really say?

  A clatter downstairs told her they had arrived. Marshal Rufus B. Hilliard’s sonorous voice floated to where she stood waiting in the upper hall. “I am here for Miss Lizzie Borden,” he called out. “Miss Borden, please come downstairs.”

  Lizzie walked down the stairs, head held high, and stopped at the bottom of the steps where John and her attorney, Mr. Andrew Jennings, quickly moved to her side. Her voice strong and sure, she stated, “I am Lizzie Borden.”

  The marshal handed over the official arrest warrant, which the two lawyers quickly perused and explained to her. With a nod, Mr. Jennings handed it over for her to read. She gave it a cursory glance without really seeing the words. She already knew what it said, and needed no further instruction.

  The men escorted her outside to the waiting carriage. Lizzie kept her head down, unable to look at the faces of the people once again gathered on the street, but not because she felt guilt. No, she felt shame and anger and sadness, and, yes, fear that it had come to this.

  After her arrival at the police station, Lizzie waited in the matron’s room until she was taken to the jail in neighboring Taunton to await the next stage of her trial. The ivy covering the stone jailhouse gave it an almost homey appearance. She was told there were but nine cells in the women’s section at the southeastern end of the building, with five cells already occupied.

  A stout, unsmiling matron led her down a long, dreary corridor lined with depressing, heavy iron bars, the air damp and cool from the stone walls. The lantern hanging on the wall and a small barred window at the back of the cell allowed barely more than a smidgen of light into the dim space. She was led to a cell much like the others, though the matron placed her in the unoccupied section, far from the other inhabitants. The hard cot and rock-hard pillow in her new home, if you could call it that, offered little comfort. She lay down in the seven-and-a- half-foot-wide space to await her fate and the next phase of her life.

  The sun had already dipped behind the clouds by the time John arrived, his visit allowed as part of her legal representation. “How’re you doing?” he asked, his voice concerned.

  She shrugged and sat up. “All right, I suppose.”

  “Good, keep strong. This will be tough, but you can do it. Andrew is finalizing papers and getting ready for jury selection to begin. As for our other problem…”

  Lizzie nodded, though with her mind already so full, she couldn’t really focus on what he was saying. “What?”

  A rustle of paper caught her att
ention. She watched him pull a large, bulging folder from his briefcase and set it next to her on the cot. “Here are the records we found with the names and the papers we scooped up from the other place we were at. I need you to go through them—”

  “No, not now. I can’t concentrate on anything. Emma can help you.”

  His voice low, John leaned in closer to explain. “Liz, your sister is working on something else, sorting through that huge stack of papers we found at your father’s and Mr. Smith’s warehouses. It’s quite a bit to go through. Once she makes some sense of it, we can begin finding common denominators and see if there are any clues as to who’s involved in what.”

  She ignored him, staring at a spot of dirt on the wall.

  “Look at me.” He reached out and grasped her hand, squeezing her fingers. “This is going to be a long haul. You need something to keep your mind focused. I need help. Please. We’ve come too far to simply let it all go. I think we’re close to an answer. Please.”

  His pleadings made sense. Still reluctant, she nevertheless nodded her agreement and eyed the folder.

  “Good.” He lowered his voice before getting up. “I never wanted to say this, but things are getting bad. There are more surges of the undead. The members are having an urgent meeting tonight.”

  That got her thinking. “That’s not good, is it?”

  “No. We need more patrols. At least we have a few more officers helping us. We might have other possible leads, too. A couple businessmen in our group had close calls. Someone locked a few of those creatures in their warehouses overnight. They were almost attacked when they went to check on their inventory the next morning.”

  The news, as awful as it was, did perk her right up. “Then someone is getting desperate. We must be on to something.”

  John nodded and clapped his hands in excitement. “Yes! Now you see why it’s so important you continue to work with me. We’re also checking into their office staff to see if there is any connection there. A few of the men recently hired new office workers and—”