The shambler growled and reached for him. Joe danced out of the way, much to the delight of everyone.
Even me.
I ain’t sure why we thought poking the shambler with our sharpened sticks was a good idea, but everyone started doing it, creeping in close enough to stab the creature and then dancing out of the way before her hands could reach us. The game might have gone on longer if the dead Miss Farmer hadn’t managed to pull herself free.
Bobbed wire ain’t a long-term fix for a shambler wanting in to the plantation. Since they don’t have any kind of survival instinct it’s no big deal for them to eventually pull themselves free of such an entanglement, ripping off great big swatches of themselves to do so. And this is exactly what the undead Miss Farmer did. One moment she was jammed up in the bobbed wire, the next she was stumbling toward us, half her dress and a good bit of arm skin left behind on the fence, which now listed to one side.
Most of the kids, myself included, screamed and ran. I took off for the field of sharpened sticks, knowing that would slow the undead woman down. But when I looked over my shoulder I realized that not everyone was with us.
Joe was standing right where he’d been, not moving, frozen in the path of the dead woman and her gaping maw. The boy had always been a bully, and the thing about bullies is they never learn how to run like the rest of us do. So Joe stood his ground, sharpened stick at the ready, convinced he was going to kill that shambler.
At some point in the woman’s lunge toward Joe he realized that a stick wasn’t much of a weapon against the dead, but it was too late. Joe was about to be shambler chow.
If it hadn’t been for Zeke.
It was Zeke that slammed into Joe, pushing him out of the way of the woman. It was Zeke the woman bit, sinking her teeth deep into his throat. It was Zeke that cried out like a wounded animal, trying for a few precious moments to push the much heavier woman off him as she tore away a great chunk of flesh. And it was Zeke that let out one soft, anguished cry as his life bled out into the dirt of Rose Hill, the sound almost indistinguishable over the noise of the dead Miss Farmer feeding.
“Joe!” I yelled, and the boy looked at me, expression distant and caught somewhere between grief and horror. I ran back to where he’d landed, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him by the hand through the field of sharpened sticks, to the safety of Rose Hill.
As we ran back we passed the patrol coming to put down the dead. I didn’t stay to watch; I’d seen enough carnage for one day. They say when they got there Miss Farmer had started on Zeke’s face, and that two of the men vomited before they even got to putting her down and driving a nail into Zeke’s head so he wouldn’t come back.
Momma gave Zeke a proper burning, and gave Mr. Isaac and Auntie Evelyn his ashes. Joe ran off a few years later, presumably to one of the combat schools, and so their heartbreak was complete, Auntie Aggie clucking her tongue and saying, “Told you them twins was an ill omen.”
It took me a long time before I left the safety of the main house, and I never ventured to the borders of Rose Hill again, not until I came to Miss Preston’s years later. I learned two valuable lessons that day.
One: the dead will take everything you love. You have to end them before they can end you. That’s exactly what I aim to do.
And two: the person poking the dead ain’t always the one paying for it. In fact, most times, it’s the ones minding their own business who suffer.
That’s a problem I still don’t have an answer for yet.
One of the finest parts of attending Miss Preston’s is all the friends I’ve made. Momma, you would not believe the camaraderie and esprit de corps in these hallowed halls.
Chapter 4
In Which I Dodge Unwanted Advances and Engage in a Bit of Blackmail
I’m staring at the scenery outside the window of the pony, brain tangled in bloody memories and a few regrets, when Miss Duncan asks me, “So, Jane, what do you think?”
I blink and sit up, suddenly quite conscious of the two pairs of eyes on me. “I’m sorry, Miss Duncan, I wasn’t listening. What are my thoughts on what exactly?”
Miss Duncan gives me a polite smile. “On the reason behind the dead rising. Of course, we’ve all heard preachers insisting that it’s our sins, of one sort or another, that have caused this plague upon our soil. But the country’s best minds have been trying to ascertain a scientific basis, and they are quite divided on the cause and the reasoning behind it. I’m curious as to what you think.”
I clear my throat and nod. I’m wondering why science is a better discussion topic than politics, but I don’t say anything because that would be entirely too cheeky. Miss Duncan is a strange one, always talking to Negroes like she cares what they have to say. But I like her well enough, so I indulge her question.
“Well, I have been read—hearing some folks talk on the subject, and I think it’s a tiny little critter that causes the infection. You know, like the same thing that makes milk sour.”
If Miss Duncan noticed my near-admission to having gotten my hands on a medical journal, she doesn’t show it. Meanwhile, Katherine stares at me with her mouth slightly agape. “A tiny creature, inside of the dead. What, like a mouse?”
I shake my head, feeling agitated and frustrated. “No, not like a mouse. Smaller. Like, too small to be seen with your eye. Microscopic. I read an article in the evening post a few weeks ago about a man named Joseph Lister over in England. See, he had a whole bunch of patients dying from infections, so he started sterilizing his surgical equipment with alcohol—”
Katherine frowns. “So now you’re saying that we should all drink ourselves stupid to avoid being turned into one of the restless dead?”
“No, not like that. The alcohol kills the tiny critters, like cleaning a mess up with soap.” Both Miss Duncan and Katherine are staring at me like I’m speaking in tongues. I let out a breath and fall back onto the unyielding seat. “Never mind,” I mutter.
This always happens when I start talking about complicated stuff with people. In my head the ideas are so clear and make perfect sense, but when the words come out they’re a mess. They might be looking at me like I’m insane, but the stuff I’m saying is true. That’s the thing with me. Once I read something, I know it forever. Whether I’m supposed to be reading it or not.
Miss Duncan gives me another small, pitying smile. “Well, Jane, that certainly is an interesting theory.”
We bump along in a decidedly uncomfortable silence. I can almost feel Katherine’s self-righteousness swelling up and filling the carriage. I bet she can’t wait to get back to her know-it-all friends and tell them how Jane McKeene is a mad half-wit that believes in invisible creatures swimming around in our blood. The rest of the trip passes in uneasy silence. There ain’t even any more shamblers outside the carriage window to break up the monotony of dirt and trees and the occasional farmstead.
Finally we approach the high stone walls of Baltimore. On this side, it’s covered in scaffolding, and men at the top appear to be adding more stones and bobbed wire. That thing’s tall enough if you ask me, but I suppose you can’t be too careful. We wait as the massive main gates of the west entrance are opened for us, and then pass into the city, the carriage letting us off at a central stop. The cobblestones are a nice change from the hard-packed dirt roads of the country. There are dirt roads in other parts of Baltimore, but this part of the city nearest to city hall has nicer streets.
I climb down, and while the rest of the girls disembark I study the gates. They are monstrously huge; I heard tell that each one takes three strong men to open and close. The wrought iron is painted black. Red, white, and blue ribbons are woven though the bars. Nearby a sign proclaims:
Come celebrate the five-year anniversary of the construction of Central Gate
on Rising Day, July 2nd, 1880
A project funded by Mayor Abraham Carr and the Survivalist Party
Dancing, food, and fireworks!
It would be nice
to go dancing, but that celebration ain’t for me. No way colored folks would be allowed at a Survivalist shindig. Not unless we were serving the punch, that is.
Right before Katherine gets off the pony, she pokes me in the side. “I want my bonnet back right after the lecture, you lying thief,” she says, low enough that Miss Duncan can’t hear. She goes off to join her friends, a couple of younger girls who are just as well-dressed as she is.
I scratch at the frizzy mass of my hair and watch her walk away. I’m feeling mighty out of sorts, and I ain’t sure this day could get any worse.
“Hey there, Janey-Jane. What you doing in town?”
I turn around and coming down the walk toward me is Jackson Keats.
I was wrong. It just got worse.
Jackson swaggers up, his derby pulled low over his eyes. His light brown skin is more red than tan, which is how he got his nickname, Red Jack. Jack’s a true redbone, fair enough that you know at least a few of his people come from Europe, not Africa. His close-cropped curls even bear a hint of auburn. I once met an Irishman with hair the same color. He weren’t long for this world, seeing as how he got put down by a shambler, but I think of that poor fool every time I see Jackson.
“Can’t help but notice you ain’t been around lately,” he says. Jackson runs the roadways between Miss Preston’s and the city, and there ain’t much in Baltimore County that goes on without Red Jack being involved, legal or otherwise. His blue-green eyes gleam. “We missed you last Saturday, Janey-Jane.”
I shrug and glance around. Miss Duncan is still occupied with the pony drivers, most likely arguing about the fee. Drivers always like to up the price of a ride after the fact. Everyone knows they’re as crooked as they come. Most likely Jackson is here to collect his piece of the action.
“Well, I ain’t miss you or your hoodlum friends. And I told you to stop calling me that. My name is Jane, not Janey.”
He grins at me, revealing a flash of gold tooth. “Aw, now, that ain’t no way to talk to a beau. You keep it up with that sassy little mouth, I’m going to start to questioning your manners.”
I cross my arms. “You. Ain’t. My. Beau.” And he ain’t. What we have together is business, not personal. Not anymore, at least. I dart a quick glance toward Miss Duncan, who is still dickering with the carriage driver. “Scram before you get me in trouble.”
Jackson puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. His gold watch chain catches the light at the waist of the brand-new green paisley waistcoat he’s wearing. It’s fancy and eye-catching. Silk maybe, and nicer than anything I’ve ever owned.
He notices me noticing and gives a wide smile. “You like it? I remember you saying green was your favorite color.”
It is my favorite color, and it does look very dashing on him. No doubt about it, he is a fine-looking man. But he’s also a mountain of trouble, and there are lots of other good-looking boys that ain’t running around on the wrong side of the law.
“You did not wear that for me, so don’t try to talk sweet. I know you, Jackson. You were probably on your way to see some poor farm girl that you tricked into believing you were the deputy mayor of Baltimore. Don’t try to rope me into your shenanigans.”
Jackson flashes me that wicked grin of his again before his eyes shift to something over my shoulder. I turn my head to follow his gaze. Katherine watches the two of us with narrowed eyes. One of the girls says something to her and pulls her attention back to the group’s conversation, and I swear under my breath. “Lookit that. Now Miss Bigmouth is going to tell on me for sure. I’ve got to get back.”
He grabs my arm, that devilish smile playing around his lips. “Come down to the barrelhouse after you get back to your school. I got a surprise for you.”
“I don’t want any surprises you might have, Jackson.”
That is a lie. He’s the one who smuggles me my news stories, even a book every now and again, in exchange for helping him with this dark deed or that one. So I do want whatever he has. But I ain’t about to tell him that.
He tilts his head, his smile fading and a serious look taking its place. “Oh, this you do. Trust me.”
I blink, because I ain’t used to such solemnity from Jackson. I once saw him beat a man near to death, all while wearing a smile.
I spy Miss Duncan heading back our way and I nod. “Not tonight. Tomorrow.”
The smile reappears, and he gives me a low bow. “I’ll count the minutes.”
I snort. “I doubt you can count that high.”
He gives me a wink, and just as quickly as he appeared, he fades back into the crowd of respectable folk moving down the sidewalks, anxious to finish their business and get inside before dark.
I move back to the knot of girls just as Miss Duncan rejoins our group. Her cheeks are flushed, and she wears an expression that says she’d like nothing more than to smack someone. That’s what trying to deal with one of them carriage drivers will do to you. They’re as frustrating as Jackson, but without the charm.
“All right, ladies, let’s make our way down to the university. We don’t want to be late for the lecture.” Miss Duncan sets off at a trot, and we all follow her. Running might be undignified for well-bred ladies, but for a passel of Negro girls destined to work cleanup, it’s just fine.
Katherine falls back next to me, her face reddening after only a few steps. I glance at her out of the corner of my eyes and can’t help but shake my head. She sees me and her already sour expression turns stormy.
“What, Jane?”
“You shouldn’t have worn that corset. That thing is going to get you killed.”
“This thing happens to be the height of fashion. But I’m not surprised you don’t know that.”
“Kate, I like pretty clothes as much as the next girl, but I ain’t about to let them kill me.”
She sniffs and adjusts her gloves. “It’s Katherine, Jane McKeene, and you know that. Never you mind about me, who was that ruffian you were speaking with?”
“Ruffian? What ruffian? I’m afraid I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
She stumbles on a cobblestone and I reach out to catch her, steadying her with a light touch to her elbow. She shakes off my hand and picks up the pace.
“That guy. With the . . . natty . . . waistcoat.” Already Katherine is out of breath, and we’ve only gone a short ways. If we keep on like this, she’s going to faint and end up splayed out on the road like a well-dressed corpse.
I hop-skip a little, falling back from the group. “Miss Duncan,” I call, doing my hop-skip-limp. “I think I got a rock in my shoe!”
Miss Duncan half turns but doesn’t break stride. “Katherine, wait for Jane. You two catch up to us at the university.”
I wave at Miss Duncan in acknowledgment and hop over to a nearby stoop. Katherine is panting at this point, her hair half fallen down after our impromptu trot.
“Stand up straight,” I tell her. “You bend over like that and you’re gonna be kissing the road.”
She does, still gasping for breath, and gestures at my shoe. “Well, get your rock.”
I snort. “I ain’t got no rock in my shoe, I did that so you could catch a breath. You get found out wearing that corset you’re gonna be on kitchen duty for a month.”
Katherine takes a handkerchief and dabs at the sweat on her lip, her eyes meeting mine with a grimace. “And why do you care?”
I smile. “No reason at all. I’m just being a good Christian.” At her look of disbelief I shrug. “Should we start walking?”
Katherine watches me for another long moment before nodding. I climb to my feet and we make our way the few remaining blocks to the university in silence.
Outside the imposing columned entryway of the school the steps are already clear. I make to walk inside, but Katherine stops me with a firm hand. “You never told me who it was you were talking to, Jane. That coarse-looking fellow. You know courting isn’t allowed.”
I smile, sh
owing all my teeth, and tilt my head to the side. The things Jackson and I used to do can’t really be called “courting,” but Katherine doesn’t need to know that. And now our connection is purely business, no matter what my heart might say every now and again.
“Why, that was no one, Katherine. Just like you ain’t wearing a corset. Right?”
Katherine opens and closes her mouth a few times, but she’s caught in a snare. So she says nothing and settles for storming up the steps in a fine flounce. I follow her a little more leisurely. Blackmail ain’t really my thing; I prefer more direct kinds of sneakery, like lying and stealing. But I can’t have Miss Duncan or any of the other instructors finding out about what I do with Jackson on the side, so this is what I’m reduced to.
We live in a terribly ruthless world.
I wish I could explain to you how fascinating and stimulating are the lectures that we receive here at Miss Preston’s, but I’m afraid my descriptions will never do them justice. . . .
Chapter 5
In Which I Attend a Very Educational Lecture
The Baltimore University of Surgery, Medicine, and Thanatology is located in a fine building, meticulously restored in the years since Baltimore was reclaimed. The entry doors are made of wrought iron and glass, and just past them, marble columns and impressive oil paintings of bearded white men line the hallways. Like Miss Preston’s, the building gives off the feeling that important learning is happening somewhere, somehow, someway. Unlike Miss Preston’s, there is no lively chatter or the tantalizing smells of supper. Instead, a faint, foul chemical smell and a cool, humid emptiness waft out from the main doors of the building. The tainted air is reminiscent of a tomb. It is not at all pleasant.
Maybe that’s why only men get to attend the university. What woman would want to spend time in such an awful, damp, smelly place? No learning is worth having to endure such melancholy.
Katherine is at the large entryway, her progress blocked by a couple of rough-looking white fellows. They lean against the door, their expressions amused. As I get closer I can see they wear the felted hats and long coats of the city police. Their mustaches are patchy, and even though they look stern they’re probably only a few years older than Katherine and me.
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