Dread Nation

by Justina Ireland

  Either way, Katherine can discover what kind of scoundrel Jackson is on her own.

  My one regret about leaving Rose Hill in such haste all those years ago is that I feel like I never got to give you a proper good-bye, Momma. I know how you sometimes see fit to hold a grudge. I hope your lack of letters isn’t tied to you being in a fine temper. It’s hard to apologize when the miles steal every last bit of affection.

  Chapter 8

  In Which I Relate the Circumstances Surrounding My Departure from Rose Hill Plantation

  The day the truancy officers came for the children of Rose Hill Plantation, I hid in the summer kitchen with Auntie Aggie. That wasn’t the first time the white men with their long beards and narrowed eyes had come to Rose Hill, taking every Negro boy and girl away to be educated. But it was the first time it was obvious to the naked eye that I was of an age to get carted off along with the rest.

  So Momma had grabbed me by the arm and dragged me around the back of the house when she heard the chug and wheeze of the government ponies coming into the front yard, the federal seal painted on the side of the steam-powered metal carriages. “Keep her away from those bureaucratic bastards. Keep her safe,” she said to Auntie Aggie before sweeping out to greet the truancy officers. She was, after all, the lady of the estate, and it fell to her to pay for one of the better combat schools for her charges, should she be so inclined.

  The government called it an investment. Momma called it extortion.

  Either way, Momma had entrusted Auntie Aggie to hide me, to keep me at Rose Hill Plantation. I’d been hiding every year since I’d been eleven, and now at fourteen I was more than old enough to get carted off to one of the government schools. Momma wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Auntie Aggie had other ideas.

  “Jane, come here.” I walked over, and she held me out at arm’s length, an expression equal parts sadness and acceptance working across her dark features. “You got to go with the officers, girl.”

  “Momma doesn’t want me to go.” I didn’t much want to go, either. There was a big scary world beyond the boundaries of Rose Hill. I was bold, but not so foolhardy as to think there was something worthwhile on the other side of the barrier fence that kept the dead out.

  Auntie Aggie nodded, as though she’d heard my unspoken thoughts. “Yes, but your momma don’t always do what’s best for you. Sometimes your momma can be powerful selfish, and this is one of those times.”

  I knew that what Auntie Aggie said was the truth. I’d witnessed Momma’s fits firsthand.

  “But if I go, I’ll die,” I said, my voice half a whine.

  “No, you won’t, Jane. Don’t you know that you’re special? Ain’t your momma told you as much?”

  I shrugged, because Momma did always tell me what a special girl I was. But I didn’t always feel special. I mostly just felt different. After all, no one else could claim the plantation’s mistress as their momma and an unknown field hand as their poppa.

  “Come here, Jane.” She swept me up into a fierce hug. “You are special, girl.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked, my words muffled by her generous bosom.

  Auntie Aggie laughed, voice husky. “Because I know things. I know that you got a great destiny ahead of you, just like your momma, and that Rose Hill ain’t no place for you, not anymore. You need to go out in the big, wide world and find yourself. And the big, wide world needs to find you. There’s a whole bunch of folk out there trying to figure out this plague, and ain’t nobody done it yet. You ask me, they might be wanting for some fresh ideas.”

  I stepped out of the hug and frowned at Auntie Aggie. “Being out in the world ain’t gonna do me much good if I get gobbled up by shamblers.”

  She nodded and reached into the pocket of her skirt. “That’s why I got you this. Miss Fi-Fi made it for you.” Auntie Aggie held out a necklace. It was simple enough, a penny with a hole in it so it could hang on a string. But I knew well enough that if Miss Fi-Fi was involved the necklace was more than what met the eye. Miss Fi-Fi was the woman you went to when you wanted to catch the attention of a handsome fellow, or when your menses were late but you weren’t looking to carry a child. Some folks called Miss Fi-Fi a healer. Most weren’t so kind.

  “Momma don’t like hoodoo,” I said, but I still held my hand out for that necklace. I ain’t never been one to turn down a gift, even if it could be cursed.

  “Your momma ain’t got to know. Miss Fi-Fi said you should wear this at all times, that it’ll warn you when there’s danger about. Now hurry, put it on before the truancy man comes and gets you.”

  I took the necklace and slipped it over my head. The penny settled in the hollow of my chest, its weight warm and comforting.

  “Now,” Auntie Aggie said, kissing me on each cheek, “go out there and tell that truancy man you’re ready to go to school.”

  The one drawback to attending Miss Preston’s is the quiet. It is ever so calm and safe here, with most of us having not a care in the world beyond our studies. . . .

  Chapter 9

  In Which I Have an Accomplice and We Skulk in the Shadows

  I’ve snuck out of Miss Preston’s many times. In the beginning it was because I was homesick, and it was a comfort to be able to lie on the sprawling lawn and know I was under the same big moon as Momma and Auntie Aggie back in Kentucky. I’d lie in the grass in my white hand-me-down nightgown and stare up at the sky, the occasional growls and moans of the shamblers at the barrier fence barely audible over the sound of my crying.

  But that didn’t last long, and it got so that I was sneaking out less because I was homesick and more because I just enjoyed the freedom. There’s something about skulking around while everyone else is fast asleep that you can’t put words to. Eventually, after a few months or so, I got bored enough with the sneaking about to jump the barrier fence. After all, Auntie Aggie had sent me away from Rose Hill so that I could see the whole big world, and that meant something besides the grass of Miss Preston’s.

  This was back when Baltimore County was filthy with shamblers, and sometimes I would hunt them in the dark, just another monster slinking through the deep shadows. Other times I would climb a tree and watch the folks dumb enough to travel at night, their whispers too loud, their reactions too slow. I would try to help out, jumping down from my perch and coming to their aid like some guardian angel. That was how I’d met Red Jack, curse my terrible luck. Most days I think I should’ve just let him get eaten.

  But sometimes I couldn’t help the people on the road when the shamblers came. I didn’t risk taking a gun for these nocturnal excursions, and my sickles were only so fast. There were too many nights when jumping down to lend my steel would only have ended in my own demise.

  Those nights were the worst.

  My nightly wanderings more often than not ended well, and I learned a lot from the shamblers I watched. I figured out they preferred to hunt in packs, and that the old ones were slow while the new ones were just as fast as a regular person. I discovered that they couldn’t outrun a deer but they could take down a dog if given enough time. I found that their sight isn’t as good as it seems, but their hearing is much, much better. I learned that they can’t help but gather up in a horde, and the dead are never lonely, that their natural inclination is to have a lot of friends. And I discovered that shamblers are never, ever satisfied. They are always hungry. And just when you think you’re safe, when you let your guard down—that’s when they get you.

  I also learned to tell the look of a man that’s been bit and the moment the change starts to take hold, the way he shakes like he’s got a chill and the way his eyes begin to yellow. I learned that I can be ruthless when I need to, and I can be merciful when I’m able. I learned that there is nothing to fear in the dark if you’re smart. And I had no doubt that I was pretty damn clever.

  But no matter how much my nightly travels may have taught me, I am still stupid enough to let Katherine tag along.


  A clever girl would’ve found a way to keep Katherine at the school, frightened her off with tales of evening slaughter on the roads, of shamblers and bandits and men that lurk in the shadows at night, ready to steal a girl’s virtue.

  A smart girl would’ve just left her behind and taken the eventual punishment when Katherine told Miss Preston about unauthorized visitors and subsequent midnight departures.

  But I am a stupid girl, so midnight finds me leading Katherine out the rarely used side door to the summer kitchen behind the school. The door doesn’t make a sound when I open it. It’s my usual route, and the hinges are well oiled. That doesn’t keep Katherine from squeaking, though.

  “What?” I whisper, irritated that we haven’t even made it outside and she’s already working on getting us caught.

  “Something ran across my foot.”

  “Probably just a mouse. Now pipe down before you wake someone.”

  I head straight toward an abandoned outbuilding on the far edge of the property. It was once used to house the slaves the men’s college owned, but it’s empty now that slavery—the kind that ended with the War between the States, anyway—is no more. The building is long and low, with a door on either side. I use the door on the opposite end of the school, just in case anyone happens to glance out her window. The moon is high tonight and casts a pale silver over the landscape, painting it in shadows and light. It’s a good night for investigating.

  It’s also a good night to get caught by a teacher doing her rounds on the perimeter fence. I try not to think about that.

  Inside of the old slave cabin, I go to a dusty cabinet and take out my personal sickles, a set Red Jack gave me a long time ago as a gift, and an extra set, since Katherine didn’t bring any of hers. Both sets are well made, balanced and sharp, and I take care of them so they stay that way. I set them on a rickety table and take out a pair of trousers, tossing them to Katherine.

  “Put these on.”

  She holds them out in front of her, her horror visible in the moonlight coming in through the empty windowpane. “You want me to wear a pair of men’s trousers?” Her voice is just short of hysterical.

  “Yes.”

  She shakes her head. “That is the height of indecency. I am not wearing these.”

  “We’re going to be walking through the woods, up and down hills and through underbrush. Skirts get caught on branches and whatnot. Plus, if we do have to fight off a shambler, skirts are a liability. We’re less likely to get killed if we can run. You wear them or you stay here.” I take out another pair of trousers for myself before I pause. “You better not be wearing a corset.”

  She sniffs. “I’m not. I learned my lesson, thank you very much.” She casts a bit of side-eye at the trousers once more before sighing. “If you tell anyone about this, Jane McKeene, I will make sure you spend the rest of your time at Miss Preston’s on housework.”

  I snort, because it’s an empty threat and we both know it. But I don’t say anything more. Sometimes I am a gracious winner.

  I pull on my own set of trousers, tucking my sleep shirt in the waistband. Katherine copies my movements. I show her the loops near the waist for weapons and how to secure the waist ties and extra strings at the ankles. And then, after handing her my spare set of sickles, we secure our weapons and are off into the night.

  It takes us nearly two hours to go the scant distance to the Spencers’ farm because we have to walk slower than a blind turtle. Katherine is skittish as all get out, and I have to remind myself repeatedly that she ain’t used to creeping around in the dark like I am. The woods are dense, with thickets and patches of poison ivy that we have to make our way around. Plus, our part of Maryland is hilly. I don’t think there’s a single flat patch of land, and huffing and puffing up and down those hills takes a while. By the time we finally make it to the Spencers’ farm it’s closer to sunrise than I’d like.

  The Spencers are one of the most prominent families in the area, and very generous to us Preston girls, so I’ve been out to their homestead a fair few times. The last was in early spring, when Miss Preston sent the older girls round to the local farms to help with clearing the fields once the thaw came and the dead got a mind to start walking again. Mrs. Spencer was always the kindest, bringing out warm milk and biscuits with jam once the killing was done. She also makes an amazing strawberry-rhubarb pie that won a blue ribbon at the county fair a few years back. The thought of something happening to her makes me a little sad, but I shove the emotion down deep. I need to stay sharp.

  Red Jack meets us a little ways from the barrier gate to the homestead proper. He wears a rough-spun shirt and trousers for a change, shedding his flashy attire for something a little more sensible. In the pale moonlight I see Katherine’s eyes widen as she takes him in. I understand why. Jackson is just as pretty in rough cotton as he is in fine silk. Plus his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his finely muscled forearms. He used to work on the docks, back before he realized he could make more money taking “odd jobs,” as he calls them, on the roads between Baltimore and the outer settlements. It’s no wonder poor Katherine is smitten with him.

  “You two have any trouble?” Red Jack asks, his voice low.

  “No. We didn’t see a single shambler,” Katherine says, her voice loud and disappointed.

  “Not for lack of trying,” I mutter, shooting her a dark look. Both she and Jackson ignore me.

  Red Jack gestures toward the main house. “I walked up and around the property. There’s no one there. All of the windows are still intact, and the front door is latched. It’s like they left on an errand and never came back.”

  There’s a slight tremor to his voice, barely noticeable. I don’t say anything, because I understand why he’s upset. People—especially those that are well off—are heard to move around, try their luck in a different city or settlement. The Spencers could have done just that and taken Lily with them and somehow forgot to tell anyone they were doing so. But I’ve learned that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. And that means shamblers. I don’t care how “safe” these lands are supposed to be.

  Jack said that there was no evidence of a break-in, but he couldn’t have gotten a good look inside yet. The dead tend to leave a lot of evidence. Very messy evidence. If the Spencers were attacked, as unlikely as that is, we’ll know soon enough.

  I sigh loudly, dreading the task at hand. I’m tired of seeing people I care about die. “Come on, I’ll check out the perimeter, then we’ll let ourselves inside to see what’s going on.”

  We walk down toward the homestead on cat feet, quiet except for the sound of our breathing. Even Katherine, who tromped through the woods like she was flushing rabbits, is silent, her footsteps whisper-soft. Shamblers are attracted to sound, so if we are discreet enough, any dead in the area shouldn’t even know we’re here.

  The Spencers’ house is a modest thing. It’s newer, built in the years after the dead started to walk. You can always tell by the square windows, which are large enough to allow some light but too small to let a body in. Trip wires with early-warning alarms are scattered throughout the yard, but these are clearly marked by stakes in the ground and we step over them easily. On the small porch, there are a couple of rocking chairs and hooks holding sickles, a scythe, and extra-sharp swords within close reach, in case shamblers get through the barrier fence. These sorts of modest protections and alarms have been adequate for settlements in the county these last few years.

  Jackson pulls a set of slim metal pieces from his pocket—a lock-picking set. Katherine’s brows draw together in a frown, and her lips purse in displeasure. She opens her mouth to say something, but I catch her eye and shake my head. There are some things she’s better off not knowing, and the sordid details surrounding that lock-picking set is one of them.

  Red Jack unlocks the door easily, and it swings open on quiet hinges. I grip my sickles, ready to swipe at anything that comes out, but nothing does. I look to Jackson and Katherine, bo
th of whom are looking at me.

  “Oh, I take it I’m going in first?”

  Katherine sniffs. “You do have the highest marks in close-quarters combat.”

  I swallow a laugh. She has no idea.

  I roll my shoulders a couple of times, trying to loosen up the suddenly tense muscles. Then I walk into the dark.

  The windows only let in a tiny bit of the moonlight, so it’s hard to see anything. I make out a table, a long cold stove, a few chairs around a nearby fireplace. But there’s no one in the room, dead or otherwise.

  “There’s a lamp on the table,” Jackson says, his voice close to my ear. It takes everything I have not to jump.

  “Well, light it. I can’t see a damn thing in this gloom.”

  “Jane, language,” Katherine calls from somewhere behind me.

  Jackson walks over to the table and lights the oil lamp. Once it’s turned up it’s easy to see that the interior of the house is completely undisturbed. There ain’t even a dirty dish in the sink. If their disappearance was the work of shamblers, they were the tidiest shamblers I’ve ever heard of.

  “You sure Lily didn’t mention anything about them all heading somewhere?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to my question.

  Jackson shakes his head. “Their iron pony is still in the barn, stocked full of coal. And look.” He gestures to the wall where a portrait of the family hangs—Mr. and Mrs. Spencer and their two little ones, their pale faces staring out at us. If they’d picked up and left, they most definitely would’ve taken the family photo.

  Katherine drags a finger across the ledge of a china hutch. “They’ve been gone for a while. Either that or Mrs. Spencer is an inadequate housekeeper,” she says, holding up a dusty finger. “Why was your sister staying with them, anyway?”