The professor smiles a little and inclines his head in the direction of the mayor and the man sitting next to him. Old Blunderbuss, as the newspapers call Mayor Carr, was the one that established Baltimore’s Negro patrol squads a few years ago, right after I arrived at Miss Preston’s. Before he was elected, the squads had been integrated, but now few whites serve in anything but command roles. I suppose it might have been a controversial move if it hadn’t been so successful. As Momma once said, “Keeping the peace in this country isn’t that hard, as long as nobody important dies.”
I don’t like this blowhard professor very much. I get the feeling his research is less about science and more about the mayor’s impending run for Senate.
The man gestures to poor, dumb Othello who hasn’t left his spot near the cage, and I can’t hold my tongue any longer. The Negro scholars ahead of us don’t seem inclined to say anything, and I cannot just let a man commit suicide, even if it is in the name of science.
I jump to my feet and clear my throat. “Excuse me, Professor Ghering?”
Everyone turns in their seats, and a few of the ladies nearer the front gasp, though whether because of my terrible hairdo or because I dared to interrupt, I ain’t certain. Either way, I have everyone’s attention.
Here’s a thing about me: I ain’t all that good at knowing when to keep my fool mouth shut.
The professor turns to me, adjusting his spectacles. “Yes, um, miss?”
I wave and smile large. “Hi there, Professor. My name is Jane McKeene, and I’m a student at Miss Preston’s School of Combat. Before we get to all the biting, I just wanted to say thank you for having us here at your esteemed lecture. It is an honor.”
The professor’s guarded expression fades, and he gives me a benevolent smile. “Well, yes, of course. You colored girls are part of the future of our great nation, and it is vital for all Negroes to understand how important they are to the fight to save humanity. This is also why we have invited your Negro scholars and leaders here to witness such a momentous experiment.”
“Oh, of course, Professor. Most definitely.” I nearly choke on the words, because the men in the row in front of me are looking very uncomfortable. They know this lecture is a sham just as much as I do, but none of them are willing to stand up and lose what little standing they have with the mayor. Leaders they are not.
I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my throat. “Now, I just have one question, and I was hoping you would answer it before you get to your demonstration.”
Next to me, Katherine grabs my arm and tries to pull me down, hissing at me under her breath. The Negro scholars in front of me are also muttering, saying some not-so-nice things about me. I ignore them.
The professor laughs. “Why, go right ahead.”
“Well, see, in the event—however unlikely—that your vaccine does not have the desired effect, and Othello there turns, I was wondering what your contingency plan is. Have you taken the vaccine yourself?”
“Oh, most certainly not,” the professor says, his already ruddy face going positively crimson.
“Oh. Well, sir, that is a problem. See, shamblers are pretty strong when they first turn, and I can’t help but notice that you don’t have anyone at the ready to put the big man down. You do understand he’s going to go after you first, don’t you?”
The crowd shifts uncomfortably, and the professor forces out a dry laugh. Next to me Katherine whispers, “Sit down, Jane!” while a few of the ladies in the gallery exclaim over the rudeness of this new crop of Negroes.
This was a bad idea. This is the worst idea in the long and storied history of terrible ideas, right on up there with Julius Caesar marching up to the Roman Senate when he knew everyone wanted him dead. Why did I open my mouth? Why don’t I just learn to mind my place, like Miss Anderson is always harping on about? For a moment my bravado falters. Maybe I should just sit down and leave Othello to his fate.
But, along the wall, one of the girls catches my eye and gives a slight nod. I know her. Her name is Maisie Carpenter. She was in her last year of Miss Preston’s my first year there. Her silent approval warms me.
“Miss McKeene—” the professor begins, but he’s interrupted by Mayor Carr himself climbing to his feet.
“Girl,” he begins, in his condescending politician’s voice, “your concern for your betters is a credit to the fine training you’ve received out there by Miss Preston’s. But you can rest assured that this demonstration is going to go quite as expected. That is to say, our good man Othello here will only experience but a little discomfort from the shambler’s bite. There is nothing that I value more than the safety of the good citizens of this fine city, and Professor Ghering’s work is a testament to the vision of the Survivalist Party and the future of these American states. It is men of science like him, and brave patriots like Othello, who will restore this nation to its former glory.” The mayor grins wide, and there is a smattering of applause in reaction to his speechifying. Then he makes a shooing motion in my direction. “Now, why don’t you take your seat. With due respect to Miss Preston, this ain’t your place.”
His words are mild; his tone is not. And what he says unlocks some long buried memory. Just like that, I’m no longer in the lecture hall but back at Rose Hill Plantation, watching as the major slowly uncoils the horse whip from its hook.
This ain’t your place, girl. You run back on inside ’fore you’re next.
I blink. This is where I cash in my chips. No way I can outtalk Old Blunderbuss, especially now that my moment has passed. After all, he’s a professional liar. I might be good, but I ain’t no politician.
“Well, Mr. Mayor, that is a relief.” I force a shaky smile and bob a curtsy before sinking back into my chair.
“You are most unseemly sometimes,” Katherine whispers next to me. “Honestly, Jane, I don’t know why you even bother with Miss Preston’s. It’s obvious from anyone paying attention that you’ll never make it as a lady’s Attendant. Why, can you just imagine—”
“That big, dumb fool up there is about to turn into a shambler, and everyone is just going to let it happen,” I whisper curtly. “Do you really think I could sit back and say nothing?”
“If Professor Ghering says—”
“Professor Ghering just said you ain’t much more than livestock. You really gonna put faith in that man’s words?”
That shuts her up, and I turn my attention back to the stage.
The professor marches over to where Othello stands next to the cage, a matter-of-fact smile on the academic’s face. Othello ain’t smiling. He looks terrified. Second thoughts and all that. “Now, go ahead and stick your hand in the cage,” the professor says. In the audience someone coughs, and the crowd is so quiet that it echoes like a gunshot.
Othello just stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looks at the shamblers, and then back at the professor, who clears his throat and gestures toward the cage. The shamblers are reaching through the bars, their faces pressed into the spaces between, their mouths agape. “Go on, Othello. There’s nothing to fear.” His voice is kind and confident. Othello turns to the crowd, and for a moment I think that maybe he’s finally going to put a stop to this, walk away and live out whatever time he has left in this world.
That’s when his shoulders slump, and he sticks his arm out.
They’re on him before he gets more than his fingers into the cage. One of them gets a hold of his hand and pulls him closer, biting down on his arm like it’s a drumstick. Othello’s shout of pain echoes through the auditorium, and in the rows ahead of us a few of the ladies get the vapors. Their girls are on them immediately, passing smelling salts under their noses and escorting them out, half carrying them. I’m sad to see that Maisie Carpenter is one of them. She was a solid marksman. It would be nice to have her here when it all goes to hell.
Up on stage, the professor and another man are pulling Othello back from the cage and settling him into the stage’s lone chair. The
shamblers are frantic now that they got the taste of fresh meat. They sniff the air, their yellow eyes scanning the crowd as they look for their next meal. Someone should walk up onstage and put them down, but no one is paying any attention to the caged dead. Instead, everyone is focused on Othello, leaning back in his chair, panting like a man that just ran a footrace.
“Kate . . . ,” I begin.
“Jane, I am not sure why you insist on calling me by that horrid nickname, but if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times—”
“Look at the stage, Kate. Look at Othello.”
Her gaze meets mine. “He’s going to turn.”
Professor Ghering addresses the crowd. His benign smile is less sure now, and people in the audience are beginning to speak amongst themselves, concern rising like the tide. “Please, calm yourselves. Othello is quite unaffected, but even if something should go wrong, research has shown that a living person bitten by a shambler will take at minimum a half hour to turn. If we all check our pocket watches—”
“I’m afraid that estimate is incorrect, Professor.” Miss Duncan stands, her voice ringing out loud and clear over the rest of the crowd. It’s the same voice that has led us in countless drills, and everyone stops talking. “I know it’s likely been a while since you city folk have witnessed a turning, but those that have been bitten can and do change immediately. The thirty-minute rule is outdated and has been summarily disproven by Mr. Pasteur over in France. I recommend we evacuate now, before we have a catastrophe on our hands.”
The professor opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a low growl comes from the rear of the stage. Othello stands behind the good professor. His eyes are yellow. Saliva drips from his mouth and his lips are turned up in a feral snarl.
He leaps.
Shouts of alarm echo throughout the auditorium. In the cage, the other shamblers are going wild, throwing themselves against the bars in an attempt get a bite of their own. People panic like a herd of spooked cattle, men and women pushing against one another to get out of the lecture hall. No one ever keeps a cool head when shamblers are about.
“Ladies.” We’re on our feet at Miss Duncan’s gentle summons. “Katherine, go out and see if you can get a rifle from one of the men who were supposed to be guarding the door. Jane, take the sidearm under your skirts and put those shamblers down.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but Miss Duncan gives me a stern look. “Not now, Jane. We shall discuss your concealed weapon later, in addition to your highly improper outburst. Girls,” she says, turning to the younger ones, some of whom are crying. They’ve probably never seen a shambler go after a man like Othello is going after the professor. Or if they have, the sight is probably waking some very unpleasant memories. “We need to stay calm and escort these nice people out of the building before they trample one another. Jane, if you could get their attention?”
I nod, reaching up under my skirts and pulling out my revolver. I fire a shot into the air, and the sound is enough to startle folks out of their terror for just a moment.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “if you would be so good as to follow Miss Preston’s girls out of the lecture hall, we have the situation under control.”
That last bit is a lie, but the easiest lie to tell is the one people want to believe. Even though a man is being devoured onstage, they’re still more worried about their own hides. They begin to file out quickly but much more calmly, the professor all but forgotten.
It’s a cruel, cruel world. And the people are the worst part.
And I daresay you would be incredibly impressed with my marksmanship skills. I am a crack shot, far beyond any of the other girls, and that is not boastfulness. I often wonder if part of that might be due to your tutelage at Rose Hill.
Chapter 6
In Which All Hell Breaks Loose
I push my way through the crowd to the front of the room, where Othello has just about had his fill of the professor. Ghering is still mostly alive, but before I put him out of his misery I have to put down Othello.
While at Miss Preston’s I’ve ended enough dead to give myself a lifetime of nightmares. The trick is not to think of them as regular folks. When you do that, your emotions get all tangled up. You start to wonder whether it’s right or wrong and what kind of person that makes you for taking their life, whatever kind of existence it may be. Your brain starts doubting, and those second thoughts can get you killed.
But when you think of shamblers as things, as mindless creatures who have to be put down so that we might live, ending them gets to be a lot easier. The farmer doesn’t cry over slaughtering a hog.
So that’s what I think about when I slay shamblers. Not who they might have once been and what kind of life there is after death, but how them being gone makes the people I care about safer, and how each body gets me closer to getting back home to my momma and Rose Hill Plantation.
For Othello, his end puts me one step closer to my beginning. I don’t even flinch when I put the bullet in his head. This close to the stage, it’s an easy shot.
Suffice it to say, the result is untidy.
I climb the stairs to the stage and look down at Professor Ghering. He’s a mess. His throat is missing and his fancy waistcoat is soaked with blood. He ain’t breathing, and most folks would usually assume that means he’s not getting up again. But I know better. My time at Miss Preston’s has taught me a few things. In all my killing the dead, this is the first time I’ve stood over a man I thought deserved it.
“I ain’t sorry this happened to you. With a fool’s pride comes disgrace. Or something like that.” I don’t know what good it is to say I told you so to a dead man, but it makes me feel a little bit better, especially after being humiliated for speaking out. I shoot Professor Ghering right between the eyes, just as I did Othello, then once more, because seeing a man so casually turned for some blowhard’s cause has put me in a fine temper. I’m about to holster my revolver when there’s a low growl behind me.
The thing about a shambler’s cage is that it ain’t designed to hold anything long-term. When you set those traps up you’re supposed to hide somewhere nearby, so you can put the dead down real quick. Unfortunately Professor Ghering and his Survivalist cronies thought they were smarter than the average foot patrol.
So I shouldn’t be surprised when the iron lock finally breaks loose, releasing three blood-crazed shamblers.
What is left of the departing crowd goes frantic. People nearest the stage shout in alarm and begin shoving. Their fear draws the attention of the shamblers, and one of them jumps off the raised platform, right down into the seats.
I’m quicker on the draw, and once I get a bead on the shambler, I put him down with a head shot. But the crowd’s already spooked. I ain’t got time to worry about a bunch of dandies running for their lives.
Shamblers ain’t like normal people, but they do have an eerie ability to recognize a threat when they see it. Putting down their hunting buddy effectively made me a target, and when the two remaining shamblers turn toward me, slack mouths open in a hungry growl, I know I’m in for it.
They stalk toward me across the stage. Inside, my heart is pounding, my blood thrumming in my ears as the fear response urges me to run run run. But I ain’t no coward. I’ve got two shots left. I just need to make them count.
I line up my sights on the bigger shambler and squeeze the trigger. The revolver recoils, smoke filling the air. He drops and I take aim at the last one. She opens her mouth wide, growling low in her throat. She’s fresh dead, so she doesn’t have the blackened saliva that so many of the older ones do. Still, drool runs down her chin and the front of her calico dress. I feel bad for her. She wasn’t rich in life, her clothing belying her poverty, and even her death has been insulting. Changed into a shambler, locked up in a cage, paraded onstage. That ain’t a fitting end for anyone.
I think through all of this in the few heartbeats between lining up my shot and pulling the trigger.
/> Click. Empty.
Quickly I count through my shots. One in Othello. Two in the professor. One in the jumper, and another in the other male. That’s only five.
And one in the air to get everyone’s attention, Jane, you damn fool.
The shambler ain’t waiting for me to figure out what happened to my last bullet. She vaults toward me, a murderous blur set on a collision course with disaster. I swear—under my breath because a lady’s Attendant never curses aloud—and brace myself for impact.
A shot rings out, and I turn to see an Attendant in the middle of the aisle, her hands shaking. Behind her is a crumpled heap of crinolines and lace. The Attendant’s charge has passed out, and the woman’s serving girl is trying to alternately drag her or revive her with smelling salts while the Attendant provides a distraction.
Unfortunately the Attendant is providing the wrong kind of spectacle, because the shambler lurches off the stage and after the trio in the aisle. I launch myself off after her.
The shambler runs up the aisle toward the prone woman, who I can see now is the mayor’s wife. The serving girl looks up, her eyes round as saucers as the shambler bears down on her.
“Shoot it!” I shout to the Attendant in the aisle, but she drops her sidearm and runs, the girl with the smelling salts close behind. Needless to say, neither of them were ever Miss Preston’s girls.
“Damn it to hell,” I yell, this time not quite able to keep the language to myself. The shambler is close enough to Mrs. Carr to get a good bite out of her, and I decide to do the stupidest thing ever.
Dread Nation Page 6
