Dread Nation

by Justina Ireland

  There is also a rifle near the bottom that’s seen better days, a relic from the War of Northern Aggression and damn near useless. I hate that rifle with a passion, all because it is hands down my worst weapon.

  When I come out of the armory, Big Sue and Katherine are gone but Miss Preston’s girl, Ruthie, is waiting for me. “Jane! Miss Preston says you need to come and see her right away.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out, praying to Jesus for patience. Ruthie is just a little thing, with big eyes, dark, velvety skin, and braids that are more fluff than braid. I don’t want to take my frustration out on her. Ain’t her fault that it’s pork chop night and I missed lunch because I was taking remedial etiquette training with Miss Anderson. And the remedial training is probably why Miss Preston wants to see me, anyway, so it ain’t like I’m in any hurry to get to the firing line.

  “Tell Miss Preston I’ll come see her after supper, okay? I’m so hungry I could eat a whole hog.”

  Ruthie shakes her head and latches her tiny hand on my skirt, pulling me in the direction of Miss Preston’s office. “She says you gotta see her now, Jane. So come on. She’s already in a fine fit. You ain’t gonna want to make her mad.”

  I reluctantly nod and let Ruthie pull me down the hallway to the main office. The school was once a fancy university, but after the dead rose up, most of the students fled. The building still looks like a school: fine wallpaper, maps of far-off places, writing slates in most of the rooms. The floor is a pale wood polished to a high gloss, and there are carpets so that you hardly even notice the bloodstains here and there.

  During the Great Discord, right after the dead began to walk and before the Army finally got the shambler plague under control, the building was empty. Back then people weren’t so much worried about education as they were not having their faces eaten by the undead. But then as the cities were cleared out and recaptured, folks got civilized once again. Shortly thereafter, Congress funded the Negro and Native Reeducation Act and dozens of schools like Miss Preston’s were created in cities as large as Baltimore and as small as Trenton.

  The minority party in Congress was against the combat schools from the start, saying that Negroes shouldn’t be the ones to fight the dead—either because we’re too stupid or because it’s inhumane. But once the act was passed and the schools were established, there wasn’t anything they could do, even if they’d wanted to. The federal government is the law of the land, but it doesn’t have much say in how things are truly run within the walls—most cities are small nations unto themselves, with the mayors and their councils in control. And anyway, I don’t much mind the schooling. Those congressmen probably ain’t seen the dead shambling through the fields for years, going after folks, trying to eat them. But I have. If I can get training on how to keep everyone back home at Rose Hill Plantation safe, then why shouldn’t I?

  Ruthie pulls me through the main foyer and down into the left wing of the building, to the big office at the end. I get a whiff of meat frying, the smell most likely coming in through the few open windows. The big summer kitchen is out behind the left wing of the house, and I can already imagine the crisp fried deliciousness of Cook’s pork chops, my stomach giving its own noisy approval.

  I have half a mind to slip out of Ruthie’s little-girl grip and sprint back down toward the dining room, but she’s already rapping on Miss Preston’s door. A creaky voice calls for us to come in, and Ruthie lets go of my skirt to open the door.

  “I brought Jane McKeene, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Ruth. You may run along now and get supper.”

  “Yes’m.” Ruthie gives me a pitying look before taking off back down the hall, to a meal that I am beginning to fear I may never get to enjoy.

  “Jane McKeene, stop loitering in the doorway like a vagrant and come in.”

  I straighten and enter the room, closing the door behind me. Miss Preston’s office looks like the master’s study back at Rose Hill. A massive desk—covered with documents, an inkpot and pen neatly placed in one corner—takes up most of the room. Bookshelves of leather-bound volumes fill the walls with the exception of the one directly next to the door. That wall is covered with the same set of weaponry as my locker: twin sickles, a Remington single-action revolver, a rifle, a pair of spiked batons. Instead of the scythe there are a pair of Mollies. They’re named after Molly Hartraft, the woman who led the defense of Philadelphia after the undead first rose. Only the most elite of Miss Preston’s girls get to train with the short swords, no longer than a woman’s forearm, and my hands itch to pick them up and test their weight. I’ve gotten to use the swords twice, and I’m passable with them, though I need a lot more practice.

  On a table behind Miss Preston is a beaded buckskin bag that she says was a gift to her family from a Sioux chief. From what I know about folks I think it’s more likely one of her ancestors stole it. Rumor is that Miss Preston’s people had gone west to the Minnesota Territory before the war but came back when the undead got the better of them. There were whispers that Miss Preston had taken a Sioux lover while out west and that she kept a single eagle feather in his memory, but I don’t believe any of that. Seems a little too much like the “True Tales of the West” stories printed every week in the paper. Plus, there ain’t a feather to be found on her desk anywhere. I would know; I spend a lot of time in the headmistress’s office.

  Miss Preston occupies the chair behind the desk while Miss Anderson sits in the chair in front of the desk. My instructor wears her lemon-eating face, so I know this ain’t going to be a pleasant chat.

  I inhale deeply and drop down into a curtsy. “Miss Anderson, Miss Preston, good evening.”

  “Save the pretty manners, Jane McKeene. You know why you’re here.” Miss Anderson is a widow, and even though her husband died in the War between the States—fighting for the Confederacy, no doubt—she still wears her widow’s weeds. Personally I think all black suits her. With her pale skin, hatchet-sharp nose, and constantly down-turned mouth, I can’t imagine her in any other color.

  “Miss Anderson, I’m afraid I am ignorant as to the reason of this visit. Honest Abe,” I add when she opens her mouth to call me a liar. Momma used to tell me, “Deny it until they’ve got you dead to rights, sugar. If they can’t prove it, it never happened.” It’s good advice, and it’s served me well.

  Miss Preston clears her throat, distracting Miss Anderson from whatever she is about to say. “You’re here because your progress in your etiquette training is inadequate. In addition, Miss Anderson tells me she found you sneaking in newspapers yet again. As you are already on probation for previous infractions, these latest shenanigans don’t bode well for your continued enrollment here.”

  I nod and clench my hands in my skirts. I should have known that Miss Anderson would run to Miss Preston as soon as she found that newspaper under my bed. Most of the girls here can’t read, so sometimes I read out loud to them. But reading isn’t something an Attendant needs to learn, so it’s frowned upon. Newspapers and novels are considered unnecessary distractions. From the way Miss Anderson acted about us girls reading, you’d think it was something dangerous.

  But the contraband was peanuts compared to my test. I wasn’t all that surprised that I’d failed my most recent etiquette examination. Seemed like a bunch of tomfoolery to me. Who could care what spoon was used for what or the proper address for a European noble? Still, I thought I might’ve had a bit of respite before I was going to be marched into Miss Preston’s office. I was already on academic probation on account of not caring enough about the importance of gravy boats. Now it looks like I’m about to get the boot.

  And then where would I go? I don’t even know if Rose Hill still stands. I haven’t gotten a letter from my momma in nearly a year, though I still write faithfully. And Rose Hill and Miss Preston’s are the only two homes I have ever known.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “Miss Preston, I’ve been trying. You have to believe me when I say that
I’ve been working my fingers to the bone trying to get better at drawing place settings. Why, I went through an entire box of chalk just last week.” I actually went through the chalk because a few of us girls were drawing unflattering pictures of Miss Anderson on our slates, but that is beside the point. “I daresay my efforts have been derailed not because of my difficulties with etiquette but because of Miss Anderson’s treachery.”

  The smile that had been ghosting across Miss Anderson’s face while Miss Preston admonished me drops off real quick, and Miss Anderson’s usual sourpuss face reappears.

  “Treachery? What treachery?”

  I sniff, indignant. “Why, that last test wasn’t even fair. Questions on the proper address of European nobles? And European-style place settings? We ain’t even talked about that stuff in our lessons.”

  Miss Anderson jumps to her feet, her face redder than boiled beets. “A ploy? Treachery? It was important etiquette, you ungrateful little brat! I’m preparing you for the noble endeavor of serving as an Attendant to polite society, but it’s like trying to teach manners to an animal. You think I don’t know what you say about me behind my back? That mother of yours—”

  “Sarah, that is enough!” Miss Preston surges to her feet, a mountain of calicos and lace. “You will excuse yourself from this meeting. Now.” I’ve never heard Miss Preston yell before, never really even seen her mad. It is awe-inspiring, a woman of the headmistress’s considerable girth moving so quickly.

  Miss Anderson stands, gathers her skirts (no small feat, she has to be wearing at least four petticoats), and saunters out, slamming the door behind her. Once she’s gone, Miss Preston takes a deep breath and lets it out on a sigh.

  “Sit,” she commands, and I fall gracelessly into the chair Miss Anderson just vacated. Miss Preston lowers herself back into her own chair, her lips tight with dismay.

  “Your sardonic nature has worn through Miss Anderson’s tolerance, Jane. I spoke to a few of the other girls about their most recent examination, and I fear you are correct in your estimation of Miss Anderson’s faithlessness. The questions she submitted for you were far more difficult than those of your peers.”

  I school my face to blankness, but, inside, my emotions are raging like a creek after a spring storm. The truth and I ain’t very close—uneasy acquaintances at best—so imagine my shock to discover that Miss Anderson really did go harder on me than the others. When I’d said all that nonsense about perfidy, I’d been telling a yarn, hoping that I could distract everyone from my questionable manners. But to know that Miss Anderson has been intentionally sabotaging me . . .

  Well, that ain’t such a good feeling at all.

  “Jane, I know that etiquette isn’t your strongest area. Many of you girls have trouble with it, which is why we wait until your last year here to introduce it. But providing the ladies of the better families with well-heeled and well-trained girls is central to our goal here. You’re a bright girl, and so I’m going to be frank with you. There isn’t the same demand for Attendants as there used to be. With the cities being declared free of undead, people are beginning to feel there isn’t much of a practical requirement any longer. An Attendant is becoming more a luxury, a mark of social standing. An ornament. Something to demonstrate one’s wealth, at dances and dinner parties. Not a life-and-death necessity. And in this context, etiquette and fashion are more important than ever.” She leans back and takes a deep breath. “I care deeply for you girls. Truly, I do. I want you all to find good homes, to get the right start in this brave new America. And that means training you properly to be a part of it. So while you might feel that finishing classes are a waste of your time, I assure you that your lack of proficiency places you in very real danger of expulsion from this academy.”

  A lump blocks my throat, and I swallow it down right hard. I ain’t going to cry, but it’s a near thing. Because failing out of Miss Preston’s means going to one of the other Negro combat schools, and none of them are half as good as Miss Preston’s. Not only that, but I probably won’t be there long before I’m sent to work a patrol. Only fancy schools like Miss Preston’s are longer than a year, and I’ve heard tell of schools that ain’t more than six months. Six months! That ain’t enough time to learn to kill the dead proper-like. Half the Negroes from those programs end up a shambler their first month on the job.

  I have no interest in working as a show pony for some coddled white lady, but an Attendant Certificate from Miss Preston’s means I can go wherever I want. It means I can make my own way in the world. And even though I want nothing more than to go back to Rose Hill and the life I left, I need to have options if Rose Hill no longer exists. As much as I’d like to quit Miss Preston’s and make a dash for home, I’m a smart girl, and running across the country half-cocked is definitely not my style.

  I need that diploma.

  The headmistress continues. “All of that having been said, you have some of the highest competency scores in the combat modalities. So I’m going to reassign your etiquette instruction to Miss Duncan, since she has some free time in her schedule. As for this most recent failure . . . I think it would behoove you to attend the lecture at the university tonight with Miss Duncan’s group. Get some real-world experience as to how a Miss Preston’s girl conducts herself.”

  I squirm a bit in the chair, because there ain’t no way listening to some old white man drone on for the better part of the evening was in my plans. “Miss Preston, by ‘behoove’ did you mean—”

  “I meant that you had best get some supper and wash up. The carriages leave after dinner. And if you aren’t on one of them, you can consider your enrollment to be terminated.”

  I give Miss Preston a tight smile and stand. “Yes’m. That’s what I thought you meant.” I drop into a quick curtsy before leaving.

  I head down to the dining room, though my appetite is gone. Even the golden stack of pork chops on my plate can’t erase the sick feeling in my middle.

  I need to start taking my studies here seriously or I’m going to be out on the street, a vagrant for real.

  That just ain’t happening.

  One of the tenets of our instruction here at Miss Preston’s is to attain enrichment beyond the schoolhouse walls, an endeavor that often takes us into nearby Baltimore. I daresay I have learned almost as much in the streets of the city as I have in the classroom and on the practice field.

  Chapter 2

  In Which I Look the Fool

  Half past five finds me running down the main corridor, hastily tying my bonnet. After a hurried dinner and a swift face-washing there was just enough time to change into the only nice dress I have before the carriage came. At least that’s what I thought, until Big Sue saw me in the dormitory.

  “Aren’t you going to that lecture thing?”

  “I am,” I said. I was trying to get my hair to do this front frizz thing that I saw in a fashion magazine I pinched from Miss Anderson. But my stubborn curls kept going up instead of down, and I was cursing the good Lord above for giving me hair that would’ve been better suited to sheep.

  “Shouldn’t you be out there waiting on the carriage? It’s leaving at half past.”

  I stopped my fiddling and turned to Big Sue. “Miss Preston told me the lecture was after dinner.”

  “The lecture is at six, but the carriage is leaving at half past five. Haven’t you been paying attention? Miss Anderson and Miss Duncan’ve been talking about it all week.”

  So that is how I end up running a full sprint through the school, sliding to a stop in the front yard just as Miss Duncan is closing the armored carriage door.

  “Jane, how nice of you to join us. Come, you can ride along in the other carriage with Katherine and me. I’m going to head inside and see if we have any other stragglers.” Miss Duncan wears a fashionable riding ensemble, her hair curled and her creases knife sharp even in the humidity. I am now more conscious of my disastrous hair and ugly blue-flower dress.

  I climb into the cab whi
le Miss Duncan goes back into the school. Katherine sits inside, fiddling with a pair of the whitest gloves I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t say anything as I sit in the seat opposite, and that suits me just fine. I ain’t got nothing to say to her, anyway.

  The pony is a newer model. It’s sort of like a train but without tracks, and the driver sits in his own protected car up front with the stove that heats the steam engine. The passenger compartment is made of steel, with bars over what would be glass windows in the wintertime. The glass has been removed on account of the heat, and although it is still powerful hot out, the beginnings of a breeze makes its lazy way through the compartment, providing a bit of relief.

  I lean back in the wooden seat and try to relax. I don’t much care for the ponies; the noise they make, all that clanking and wheezing, tends to attract the dead. But it’s a long way through forested hills to get to Baltimore, and we’ll be returning after the sun goes down. Trying to travel by foot at night is a death sentence. It’s amazing how quickly the dead can creep up on you in the dark.

  In the old days, carriages were pulled by horses, and that’s why we call them ponies now. Horses were big, stinky beasts that snorted steam and had eyes of fire. At least, that’s what Lloyd, the older boy that used to cobble shoes back at Rose Hill, told me they looked like. I ain’t never seen a horse. The dead are hungry, and the thing they’re hungry for is flesh. Most horses met a sad fate at the hands of the shamblers back in the early days, eaten by the very same people who’d once cared for them. Momma said that’s why you had to be wary. “Janie, you mark my words, you be careful who you trust. You never know when the man you married is going to turn around and try to take a nibble out of your neck.”