Mistress of the Undead | Page 2

set out for the rutty road around the edge of the marsh. He lowered
his head against the raging wind, and rammed his hands deep in his
pockets to keep them warm. It was bitter cold.

At the edge of the marsh it was quieter, and it felt warmer to Turner.
Suddenly his feet seemed drawn toward the swamp by some mysterious
power. He tried to turn back into the narrow, open roadway, but his
lower limbs refused to coordinate with his thoughts.
Once in the swamp, undergrowth seemed to part in front of him as he
advanced. He looked down at the soggy ground. His feet made no
tracks. Sawgrass was knee-high. None of it swashed against his legs
like it usually did when he was working his way toward a blind to shoot
ducks.
Above him limbs of trees were so closely knitted they blotted out the
sky with an inky blackness. He soon lost all sense of direction, but his
feet kept carrying him forward, splitting through the middle of the
marsh toward Lake Worth, without any mental effort on his part.
All at once something struck him violently on the head. He felt himself
pitch forward on the mushy ground, yet he seemed to be standing still.
He drew out his watch and struck a match. It was 6:30 o'clock. He had
only a half-hour to get the doctor back to Nancy BlakeÑand she was
dying at seven o'clock.
Frantically he tried to fling his body forward, but he was without power
to move.
There was a roar in the distance. He listened intently. The howling
wind started again, singing a mournful dirge through the tall trees in
rhythm with the approaching noise.
A glaring beam moved toward him, throwing a narrow shaft of light
through the opaqueness above him. On each side of the staring yellow
eye he saw green and red pilot lights.
The Little City plane! Sister ship to the one crashing here a year ago, he
thought. He'd let it guide him. It would pass directly over Lake Worth.
He wasn't lost now. He'd follow its tail light.
He laughed at his sudden relief from frightÑbut a delirious sound came

from his throat, and his own laughter was terrorizing to him. He turned
to watch the oncoming plane.
Noise of the whirring motors grew louder and louder. The light was
shimmering through the tree tops overhead. Then he wondered why the
plane had a headlight. Blind flying was customary.
He stood waiting for the huge liner to pass over, so he could swing
along behind it.
Level of the light dropped lower and lower on the bodies of the tall
trees, as the plane came closer to him. Noise from the motors merged
with the wind into one long, weird moan. Above it he heard the shrill
shouting of excited voicesÑvoices of frightened people.
Damn! The ship was dropping low. Too low to clear the swamp trees,
unless the pilot nosed it up!
John Turner stood frozen in his tracks, straining like a wild animal at a
leash. He couldn't move. He tried to wave a warning to the pilot. His
arms hung limp by his sides. Frantically, he began shouting, but roar of
the motors and screaming voices of the passengers drowned out his
voice until he couldn't hear himself.
Wheels of the plane struck the treetops and shaved them off like straws.
The airliner dropped lower. Tree limbs failed to retard its speed. Debris
of plane and trees was falling all around Turner.
Lower and lower the ship dropped, battering itself against timber and
shattering off wings. The pilot apparently made no effort to raise it. The
craft headed toward Turner. All the passengers seemed crowded down
front. They stared wild-eyed at him there in the path of the onrushing
plane.
Between pilot and co-pilot sat a queer looking little man. They were
laughing at John Turner as the wingless plane plummeted toward his
head.

They were aiming the damned thing at him! He dropped to the ground
and the liner shot over him, barely head high. It was a narrow escape!
THE giant liner hit tree trunks, and bounded from one to the other like
a rubber ball. Arms and legs from human bodies hurtled through the air.
Headless bodies splashed in swamp waters, turning them blood red.
Scream after scream rent the air, loud and terrifying. Trees finally
battered the plane to earth, and all was quiet again. Moans of the dying
ceased.
Turner's head ached. He felt of his hair. Blood was matted there. It was
cold. The injury had occurred too long ago to have been caused by the
plane. Something had struck him before it came crashing through the
trees.
Part of the plane wreckage burst into flames,