Blood Alley (5 page)

He couldn’t wait any longer. Maybe the witch was inside, keeping warm, working on a potion to turn the little children of New Atlanta into frogs.

He knew he needed to move, to go inside and get the witch to give him the cure. But old fears kept him rooted behind the bushes where he hid.

When they were younger, Alex and he used to come down here late at night on dares, sneak up and steal things from the witch’s porch. That was how Alex and Emily first met.

Emily lived over in the rich quarter, near the old country club was located. She and some of her rich kid friends had bet Conner and Alex they could not steal the witch’s broom. Even then, Alex had been smitten by the young Emily. It had been Alex who said that he and Conner would steal the witch’s broom, but Emily would have to come with them. Alex had also said when the got the broom, Emily would have to give him a kiss.

That night, the old hag had almost caught the boys and Emily, but in the end, the country club boys got the witch’s broom and Alex had got his kiss from Emily. In Conner’s mind, Emily had become a third wheel that night.

Conner wrapped his arms around his torso, the infection bringing him to his knees once more. As soon as the spasms stopped racking his body, he stood up and moved out from his hiding place. He was not going to let childhood fears of a little old lady stop him from getting what he needed.

The front porch of the shack dipped under his weight as he moved up under the overhanging roof. A lone rocker stood by the door, its white paint long since chipped away. Drying herbs hung from lines placed between the poles that held up the roof.

He hesitated at the creaking noise the floor made, and then silently chided himself for his overwhelming fear of the old lady. He was a man now, not the boy who used to play pranks and make stupid bets. He stood up a little taller and knocked on the front door, the knock came back sounding hollow from within. Nothing happened. No sound of approaching footsteps beyond the door, the only noise was the wind whispering from between the trees at his back.

He raised his hand and rapped on the door somewhat harder the second time. This time, the door swung open on its own accord revealing the small room on the other side.

Conner stuck his head in. “Hello! Anyone home?” he asked. When no response came, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

The room was cluttered, but not a mess. Everything seemed to have a place. Wherever he looked, Conner saw herbs hanging to dry. To Conner, the inside of the shack smelled what he imagined an Italian restaurant would have smelled before the Apocalypse.

Along the far wall, past a table that had all sorts of jars and a mortar and pestle, was a fire place. The fire was banked, but it gave him just enough light to see about the room.

Not far from the fireplace, another rocker, twin to the one on the porch, sat with an afghan over the high back. Conner could not see a bed in the room and assumed that the rocker was where the witch slept. On an iron hook, hammered in the side of the fireplace, an old, black cauldron hung over the low flames, an aroma of cooking stew came from the pot. Although he hadn’t eaten in over twenty four hours, the smell of the food did not draw Conner over. He gagged, the smell made him nauseous.

“Hello,” he called out again. “Anyone home?”

Not knowing what else to do, Conner walked over to the table and started searching through the bottles and jars. He read each of the labels as he picked them up. “Echinacea, Dandelion, Ulcer cure,” he slammed the bottle down. “Saint John’s Wort, Peat moss, Hemp weed. Crap, all crap. I need the cure,” he mumbled as his frustration mounted.

Conner was so engrossed in his search that he did not hear the door to the shack open. It was not until he felt a finger tap lightly on his shoulder that Conner knew he was no longer alone in the shack.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he shouted as he turned. His heart pounding in his chest.

“I don’t think even he can help you now, young man,” the voice barely escaped the little woman’s lips. “You’re sick young man. You have the Freddy’s.”

Conner stared down at the little old lady. Her face was all wrinkled, covered in liver spots. She wore a shawl over her head and little gray wisps of hair poked out. She could not have been more than four and half feet tall nor weighed over eighty pounds.

“You scared the shit out of me lady,” Conner half moaned. “I need help. I need you to give me the cure. I know you have one. Everyone knows you have it.”

“There’s no cure for whats you gots. Ain’t nobody got the cure for Freddy’s. You need to run along. You need to go find those nice young men of the militia and lets them know you got the Freddy’s.”

“Please lady, give me the cure. Don’t make me hurt you for it,” Conner said as he began to feel anger rising inside him.

“I knows you young man. Don’ts I?” she asked, squinting her eyes in the gloom to get a closer look at Conner. “Why yes I does. You’re one of them little hooligans who used to come here and steals my things. Just to make everyone thinks you were big men. You owe old Mattie a new broom, don’t ya?”

“Please, lady. I’m sorry we ever bothered you. Just give me the cure and I’ll be on my way.”

“You just plain daft?” she asked. “I tolds you there ain’t no cure for the Freddy’s. So tell me boy, did stealing my broom get you that little girl you and your friend were trying to poke?”

At the mention of Alex and Emily, Conner’s hold on sanity began to slip. He reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm. Her arm felt like a frail bird’s wing in his grip, but he still squeezed hard. “Don’t talk about my friends, you have no right,” he yelled at her.

She squirmed in his tightening grip but somehow managed to break free. Reaching behind her, she grabbed a broom Conner had not noticed before. She spun around and jammed the end of the broom into his stomach. Conner crumpled to the floor, the wind knocked out of him by the blow.

“See, I gots me a new broom,” she said as she swung it back around and swatted him in the face with the bristles. “I’ll give you this one, too,” she said as she continued to beat him with the broom.

The blows became less effective as Conner rolled up in a ball on the floor, but it did not stop the witch from hitting him. Why? All he wanted was the cure. Why was this all happening to him. Today was supposed to have been a good day.

As the blows continued to rain down on him, Conner’s anger grew, each blow punctuating all that had befallen him.

He spun around until his feet were facing the witch then he kicked out with all his might. His blow caught the old woman at the waist and sent her across the room, into the table. Bottles and jars clanked together, a few dropped to the floor spilling their contents.

Before she could recover, Conner rose to his feet and jumped on the woman pining her back against the table. His mouth, inches from her face. Conner could smell her. He smelled the oldness of her body, the unwashed aroma of her clothes, and the fetidness of her breath. His stomach rumbled once in hunger. Saliva rolled around in his mouth. Conner was hungry, starving. His mouth opened exposing his teeth.

A look of terror appeared in the old lady’s eyes. Death was standing in front of her.

Conner moved forward, his mind closing to what he was about to do. He bent forward and buried his teeth in the old lady's face. He both heard and felt her nose break as his teeth sunk slowly into her flesh. She screamed, her fist pounded on his shoulders. He pulled back, half her face in his teeth. Oh God, he thought. That tastes so good. He barely chewed, swallowing the flesh as quickly as he could. When he finished the mouthful, he turned back to the witch. He reached up, grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her to the floor.

More, was his only thought as he jumped down on top of her. Blood filled his mouth as his teeth sunk into the carotid artery.

Conner Witt fed for the first time. He gorged on the old lady, feeding his hunger. He continued to eat until the ache that filled his soul subsided. The part of Conner that was still human came back to him bit by bit as the hunger left his body.

No longer did the need to feed fill his every thought. He stopped. He stared at the wreck of the old woman’s body and cried. He cried for the old lady, he cried for Alex and Emily. But mostly he cried for himself. He knew there was no cure. He knew that if he did not go to the militia he would become one of the Infected. A zombie! The militia would kill him or he could find a way out of the gates and wander around, join the zombie hordes in their march up and down the Eastern Seaboard of what used to be the United States of America.

Eventually, Conner stopped feeling sorry for himself. He stood up and crossed to the door of the shack and peered outside. Assured that nobody was out there, he closed the door and returned to the table in the middle of the room. He filled a large bowl with water, from a pitcher he found and washed the blood from his face and hands. He did his best to get the gore out of his clothes.

Satisfied that he had cleaned up enough to move around outside, Conner Witt left the old witch’s shack down by the river and headed back toward the heart of the city.

VIII

Romulus and Captain Walters watched as the dog approached the old shack. They had followed a fairly straight path to the shack. AJ had only lost the trail once, but had quickly found it again after circling around a few times. Conner Witt had known exactly where he had been heading when he left his apartment. The trail had not wandered at all as it moved towards the river.

“What is this place?” Romulus asked.

“Old Mattie lives here,” the Captain answered. “She is a town legend. All the young folk, people who had grown up after Freddy’s, believe that old Mattie is a witch. Of course she’s not. She’s just an old lady who collects herbs. She once made a concoction for my hay fever.”

“Why would Conner come here?”

“Probably because a lot of people think that she has the cure for Freddy’s. She doesn’t, nobody does.”

“If he did that, he hasn’t turned yet. Still thinking like a man. We still have time.”

“Maybe he’s inside,” Captain Walters said hopefully.

“That would be helpful,” Romulus replied as he looked at the river. Several boats were tied up to the docks that stretched out into the muddy waters. How easy, he thought, would it be to steal one of the boats and go down the river a bit. Maybe he could catch and overtake the Stratos brothers. Of course his Harley was in the impound yard, by the front gate. If he was to beat out the brothers, he would need his bike and rest of his gear. The thought of floating down the river faded with his chances of fulfilling the contract.

“I don’t think he is still in there,” Romulus said.

“How’s that?”

“Look at the dog. He is starting to circle the building. Looks like Witt has come and gone.”

“We should probably take a moment and see inside.”

“Yeah,” Romulus agreed as the two men moved toward the shack.

Captain Walters took over again as they approached the door. He raised his hand and banged on the old door. “Militia,” he called but was cut short as the door swung open.

The shack was dim inside, but both men knew immediately what had happened. The old woman’s body was on the floor, framed by the light pouring in from the open door.

“Still think we have time, Pike?” Walters asked.

The zombie hunter removed the axe from his back and stepped over to the corpse. “This one won’t be rising again, but there is no reason to take the chance.” He swung the axe around and buried it in old Mattie’s forehead. He wiped the axe off on her clothes and leaned down to inspect the body. “Yeah, those are teeth marks. You definitely now have a zombie problem, Captain.”

“How long ago was the attack?”

Romulus moved his hand over the corpse. He made sure no part of his hand touched the dead woman. “I can still feel the heat radiating from her body. Cannot have been very long ago. An hour or less.”

“You stay here Pike, I need you to make sure that animal of yours still has the trail. Time this stops, before he attacks anyone else. I am going to go back and gather my men. I won’t be gone for more than thirty minutes. As soon as we are back, we’ll go find the bastard.”

Captain Walters left the shack, not waiting for Romulus to acknowledge his orders.

Romulus stood and watched the Captain walk off in the dusk. Snow started to fall with the man’s departure. He turned back around and inspected the shack for the first time since he entered. The small room had been a cozy place once, before violence had been unleashed. He thought it might have been nice to have visited the old lady on a cold, winter afternoon.

He had really hoped that they might have caught up with the man before he had turned. Rarely in his job did Romulus ever get to help people. Had the Captain and he just been a little quicker, perhaps old Mattie would now be sitting in the rocker before the fire.

A bloody bowl of water sitting in the middle of the table caught Romulus’s attention. He walked over and inspected the bowl. Around the edge were bloody finger prints and next to the bowl was a bloody towel.

The bowl and towel were a clue, an important clue the Captain had missed. Zombies don’t take the time to clean up. Conner Witt killed the old lady with his teeth, no disputing that fact, but he was not one of the infected. Time had not run out for finding the man. Romulus searched the room, his eyes coming to rest on the broom lying by the old woman.