The Horror Megapack_ 25 Classic and Modern Horror Stories ( PDFDrive )

THE WALKING DEAD, by E. Hoffmann Price
When Walt Connell heard the diffident tapping at the back door, he assumed
an expression of judicial sternness. Plato Jones, who spaded Connell’s garden,
must be returning with a fantastic story to account for a week’s absence and the
six dollars which Connell had given him to buy some orange wine. But it was
Plato’s wife who tapped at the door, a plump, comely black woman with a small
parcel under her arm.
“Evenin’, Mr. Walt,” she began. “My man Plato ain’t come back yet.”
Tears were streaming down her face. Connell was saddled with a problem.
Taking on a servant entailed responsibilities. He’d have to help her somehow.
“That no-good man of yours probably drank my orange wine and now is afraid
to come back,” Connell said.
“No sir, no sir!” Amelia protested. “Plato don’t drink nuthin’!”
“Well, maybe I can help,” Connell temporized.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Walt!” Amelia beamed through her tears. “I knew you’d take
care of me.”
She thrust into his hands a paper-wrapped parcel.
“I baked y’all a chocolate cake for lunch when you go to get that no-good man!
And I fixed up some salted cashew nuts, too.”
Her guile had caught him totally off guard. He had accepted the present.
Nothing to do but resign himself to a sixty-mile drive down the Mississippi
Delta where the Cajuns convert undersized oranges into fragrant, blasting wine;
a no-man’s land, where a century or more ago, Lafitte’s pirates found refuge.
The next morning Connell thrust Amelia’s gift of chocolate cake and cashew
nuts into the parcel compartment and headed down the west bank. He spent the
forenoon searching small town jails as he worked his way down the Delta, but
no news of Plato. His last chance was Venice, at the end of the highway.
Venice was half a dozen shacks plus a general store not much larger than a
piano box. The girl behind the counter was uncommonly attractive. One of those
substantial Cajun women, with luxurious curves, and plump, firm breasts as
inviting as her amiable smile. Connell, however, managed to shift his glance to
her dark eyes and began his oft repeated query concerning Plato and his red flivver.
Marie shook her head. Her eyes suddenly became somber as she said, “You’re
too late.”
“What do you mean?” Connell, catching her by the wrist, felt her tremble.