The dead girl reaching for my throat is Maisie Carpenter.
Maisie was in her last year when I got to Miss Preston’s. The last time I saw her was the night of Professor Ghering’s lecture, when she stood along the wall, nodding in agreement as I protested using that poor man in that professor’s ill-conceived experiment. And now, here she is.
My penny goes cold, and the sensation is enough to snap me out of my poorly timed ruminations. I grunt and yank the blades the rest of the way through Maisie’s neck. It’s not as efficient as a swing, but with the rusty blades it’s the best I can do. Still, it takes entirely too much effort. In the time I’ve taken down two shamblers, I could normally have taken down five or six.
One of the other girls finally gets her scythe up and swings it at a shambler’s neck. The thing goes to the ground; it’s another girl dressed like an Attendant. I recognize this one as well. It’s the girl that ran off, leaving Mayor Carr’s wife to her fate.
Looks like I found the answer to what happened to the girls assigned to the fine ladies of Baltimore. I file the fact away for later, another piece of a puzzle I ain’t sure I understand or even want to parse.
I rest my hands on my knees and breathe deeply as the antique shamblers amble close enough to be a threat. I have to take care of them quickly, before any others show up to see what’s going on. After all, we still have a wall to climb. The other two girls stand a few feet behind me, their expressions dazed and more than a little shocked.
“Go on, get back up. I’ll take care of these.” I don’t have to tell them twice. They run toward the wall, trying to find the handholds that’ll allow them to climb to the top. That’s the problem with walls: they don’t just keep the enemy out.
The remaining shamblers are practically ancient, wearing uniforms from the war, and it takes very little effort to separate their heads from their bodies. They’re all extremely decayed, a few of them missing arms. One has a cavalry sword hanging from his belt, and after I put him down I unsheathe the sword and test its weight. It’s a real sword, not a decoration like the major used back at Rose Hill. I ain’t partial to swords—the time on the reverse is too long if you miscalculate your swing—but it’s better than a couple of rusty gardening blades.
I use the sword to put down the rest of the decrepit pack. The euphoria, that light-headed feeling I get after every battle, is stronger than ever, most likely because this is the first time in a very, very long time where I could have died. Another few seconds removing poor Maisie’s head, another couple of shamblers, and I could be lumbering and dragging along just like them.
After the last of the old dead has been dispatched, I wipe the sword off on the nearest body. I toss the sword onto the top of the wall and locate a couple of possible handholds before backing up a few steps to get a running start. I run and jump, my hand digging into the uneven spots in the wall. I haul myself up to the top, groaning from the effort, kicking and scrabbling in a downright ungainly manner. But I’ve managed to clear the wall, and that’s a feat in and of itself.
A crawling sensation tickles across my skin as I stand. That’s when I see Bill, below me on the inside of the wall, his rifle trained on me. Next to me, the girls have their hands up in the air. “Put ’em up!” Bill says.
I raise my arms over my head, sword at my feet. To the right of me the other two girls raise their arms a little higher, hands shaking. Their eyes are wide, and they’re clearly terrified.
Bill stares at us for a long time. He’s sweaty and unsettled, like maybe lunch didn’t agree with him. “Sir, what seems to be the problem?” I ask, keeping my voice calm.
“You got bit,” he says, moving the rifle from one of us to the next.
I look at the other girls, one of whom has started crying quietly. Bill didn’t even bother to climb the wall, there’s no way he can know what went on right below it. I turn back to Bill. “No sir, none of us got bit. Sure, took us a bit longer to put down the shamblers than it should’ve on account of the poor quality of weapons we’re given, but we are all safe and sound.”
Bill turns the gun on me, then the girl next to me, then finally the one on the end. “No, you ain’t. Them shamblers bit you. Ain’t no way you’re coming off that wall!”
By this point Bill is yelling and gesturing, spittle flying, and I’m a little shocked at how he’s gone from spiteful bully to raving lunatic. I glance at the girls, to see if either of them was in fact bit, when thunder splits the humid air, warm fluid spattering my face. I turn to Bill, whose eyes are wide and surprised, and then back to the girls. The one closest to me is flat on her back, most of her jaw missing, eyes wide and staring.
A deep sadness rips through me, followed quickly by anger. I didn’t even know her name.
I whip back to Bill, who is now frantically chambering his next bullet. My anger loosens my tongue, and I drop my arms and bend down to grab my sword, gesturing at Bill with it. “What the hell is the matter with you? All you had to do was look at her arm! What kind of bastard just goes around shooting people?”
But Bill can’t or doesn’t hear me. He lets out a frightened squeal as his eyes go wide, staring at the girl on the end. She’s dropped her head and she’s starting to shake, the full body shudder of someone turning. A low growl comes from her throat, and Bill hastily raises his rifle. The shot goes wide, but it gets the girl’s attention, and her head snaps down, yellow eyes locked on Bill.
I bring the sword up and through her throat, hard and fast. The blade does the job, her body falling on the shambler side of the wall, her head tumbling the other way.
Bill is frozen, and so I climb down the wall, grabbing what handholds I can but mostly sliding. It takes a good while, and my temper is hot as I make my way, sword in hand. The dark cloud has settled over my thoughts once again, and I’m only half-aware of what I do.
I march up to Bill where he stands, wide-eyed. His joints finally loose and he tries to point the rifle at me, barrel shaking. I knock it to the side in one motion. He’s all out of shots, anyway.
I point the sword at him, the rusty tip only a few inches away from his nose, the blade dripping the poor girl’s lifeblood in the space between us. I’m sad and angry and a whole host of other feelings, but mostly I’m fighting very hard not to kill Bill.
“You just murdered an innocent girl, you cowardly bastard. All you had to do was check their arms! How hard is that?”
Bill just stares at me.
“Say something, you sad sack of manure! Give me a reason not to take your head off.”
Bill says nothing. He looks away, shaking. I want so much to end him here, to vent my anger and frustration and fear in a single swing of a rusty cavalry sword.
But I don’t.
I take a deep breath and wipe the blood off on Bill’s shoulder before I prop it on my own. If I kill him, I have no doubt that the sheriff will execute me while that no good pastor and most of the town looks on in judgment, and I ain’t fixing to die just yet.
“If you point a gun at me, you’d better use it, because next time I might not remember that a lady doesn’t go around lopping the heads off of random folks, you goddamn yellow-bellied jackass.”
I turn and walk back to the wall, climbing it easily this time. A few feet away Alfonse stands, openmouthed, waiting for me. I give him a long look. “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”
He nods and we pick back up where we left off, walking up and down our portion of the wall. The moans of the shamblers seem farther away now, like they’ve lost interest now that fresh meat isn’t in the immediate vicinity. Inside, my thoughts churn. This can’t be the first time Bill has shot an innocent person out of fear. Do we truly mean so little around here? I laugh mirthlessly at the obviousness of the answer. Maisie, and the other girl, the one I didn’t know . . . it wasn’t an accident that she ended up in a field full of shamblers. Maisie was always top-notch when I knew her; there’s no way she got bit during a routine patrol. So how did she turn?
I ain’t sure I want to know.
As I walk the wall for the remainder of the day, one thing becomes clear. There is no such thing as the good life in Summerland for Negroes. The only thing here for us is death.
Whatever form that might take.
I’m sending along some money for a new dress. The tobacco this year did very well, as did the tomatoes. Of course the tobacco fetched a far better price. It’s amazing that even in the twilight of the Apocalypse people are willing to pay a premium for their vices. I’m thinking of buying the Parkers’ old homestead and using the fields for additional corn for the whiskey, since our small distillery has become quite popular. One of the field hands, a big man named Kingston, says he knows a thing or two about running a still, and I think he might be able to take on the additional work, since our own still is so very small. I feel this would be an excellent way to ensure Rose Hill’s financial stability. I will not have you return to a hovel.
Chapter 24
In Which Some Time Passes and I Grow Restless
Every day is just like that first day. We run out to some place along the wall, grab breakfast, run some more, the rotations decided upon by the sheriff and his men. Once there, the fence team checks out the interior fences, while the patrols walk the wall, watching the shamblers boil and froth beneath us. I get the feeling there are other groups of boys and girls doing this same task at different times of the day, but the sheriff is careful to keep us separated, and I only see the twenty or so girls and boys who make up my group. I ain’t paired with Alphonse for every patrol, and the ever-changing roster of partners is mind-numbing.
Sometimes I walk the wall with Ida, who tries her damnedest to draw me into conversation, to no avail. Sometimes I walk with one of the other girls or one of the boys. Our job is simple: walk along the wall, make sure the shamblers don’t get too intrepid and climb over. The rotting remains of dozens of shamblers line the lee side of the wall, including the ones I put down my first day, and no matter how much time I spend on the berm I never get used to the smell. It is a foul task the sheriff has set us to, and I ain’t sure why we ain’t allowed to harvest the whole lot of them.
The only possible joy in my life now is putting down shamblers, but I am denied even that bit of relief except in the rare case where a shambler decides to test out the wall. It quickly becomes clear that the idea of a single shambler climbing the spare handholds and making it to the top is a ridiculous one, but we’re still permitted to swing down and harvest any that tries, for which I’m thankful.
I keep my sword, and Alfonse must say something to the rest of the patrol team about what happened on the first day, because no one makes a move to snatch it from the shed where we put our tools at the end of the day. No matter how long I take to get into the weapons shed, the sword is always right there where I left it. I manage to make it passable-sharp as I walk the wall, using a decent rock and a lot of spit. It still needs oil, and it’s nowhere as good as my sickles back home, but it’s better than anything else, and I’m glad for it.
In the evening we run back, eat dinner, go to church whether we care to or not—the sermons are all about as inspiring as that first one—and go to bed. On Tuesday, nearly a week since we got to Summerland, we collect our meager pay. Most folks immediately take to the general store, a line of dark faces lining up out front waiting to spend their money. The colored folks ain’t all that different from the white working-class folks, since Tuesday is payday for the cowpokes as well and they’re all up in the saloon spending what little they got. The only change is Bob and Bill standing near the line of colored shoppers, only too happy to use their rifles if anyone should get out of hand. After what I saw my first day at the wall I have no doubt they would.
I watch the line, noting a few unfamiliar faces, older folks I don’t recognize. They most likely work and live in the nicer side of town with the fancy houses. That must be where they’re keeping Lily and the Spencers, and Katherine. I’m sure Katherine is fine—she’s too contrary to be anything else—but I’m desperate to get to Lily and see if she’s okay. I can’t leave town without the two of them in tow, so until I can find them I’m trapped here.
I’m also anxious about Jackson. I haven’t seen him since the day we arrived, and after witnessing Bill’s itchy trigger finger, I fear the worst. But I’ve heard no news of him being killed, so I nurse the tiny ember of hope the same way I nurture my rage.
I don’t go to the general store, even though I’m hungry and could do for some extra chow. I take my money to the Duchess for a bath, clean clothes, and to see if one of her girls can braid up my hair. The light-skinned Negro girl I saw perched up the bar on the first day, Nessie, comes into the bathing room while I sit in the rapidly cooling bath, weaving my hair into rows so tight it makes my eyes water.
“Why didn’t you go and spend your money at the general store like everyone else?”
I shrug. “I will at some point. I’d rather have clean blankets and clothes for now.”
Nessie laughs, the sound high and lilting. “You the only one. You’re smart to stay away from the general store, though. You go there, your pockets empty real fast. They got the prices so high, even a penny whistle costs two bits!”
After Nessie finishes braiding my hair, my head throbbing because of her braiding skill, I finally ask the question that’s been plaguing me all week. “How’d you end up in the cathouse? All the other girls are white.”
She ducks her head and shakes it. “Ah well, the sheriff, he took a liking to me back when I first got here. If you haven’t noticed, he’s kind of a sucker for a pretty face. Offered for me to work for the Duchess, instead of marching out among the dead.” She looks embarrassed, tugging at the low front of her dress, trying without success to pull it up. “It don’t matter much anyway now, but I was never any good at taking down shamblers. I always got stuck wondering who they’d been before. And after the last big massacre before the wall was finished, well, I didn’t have the stomach for it. I would’ve just gotten someone killed out on the line.” She goes quiet for a while, the sound of her breathing the only clue she’s still behind me. “Whoring ain’t so bad once you get used to it, just ask the other girls. Most of the men are okay . . . the sheriff’s boys can get rough, though.”
I nod, feeling like a lout for asking such a personal question. She offers me a hand mirror to check her work. I turn my head from side to side before pointing to my hair. “Thank you.”
She smiles wide, the shadows of shame fleeing her face. “Not a problem. Let me know if you’d like me to do it for you again. I’ll have the Duchess give you a discount. You got good hair, not as thick as some of these other girls.”
My lips quirk. Auntie Aggie used to always say that about my hair as well. It makes me homesick for Rose Hill, the ache so bad that I nearly cry.
Later I lie on my blankets, still damp from being laundered, and reread my letters from my momma for the millionth time. The night sky out here in Kansas is somehow plenty bright to read, and as always, a kind of pain blooms in my chest, part homesick and part grief. The last letter is from nearly a year ago, and in it Momma plaintively wonders why I haven’t written. I think of all my letters, all those memories and clever anecdotes, gone into the ether. I know Red Jack posted them for me. But if the postmaster never forwarded them, then they never went. What happened to those letters, anyway? Did Miss Anderson read them and laugh at my girlish sentiment? Or did she snatch them up and burn them? I imagine Miss Anderson tossing the letters into the fireplace, her hatchet face smiling evilly, and a white-hot rage seizes me so firmly that I’m half afraid I might murder someone just to watch them die.
I take deep breaths, pushing the rage aside, plotting instead of giving way. I’ve been in Summerland for a week, and I still got no idea how to get myself back east to Baltimore and Rose Hill. It seems like an overwhelming task, a mountain of adversity, separated from what few friends I have and a plain full of shamblers between me and where I want to b
e.
I doze in fits and starts, my near-empty belly and discontent stronger than my fatigue. Eventually I wake. I need to move, to go somewhere of my own free will, otherwise I’m going to explode in an ugly way. The feeling roiling around in my chest reminds me of the night the major tried to kill me, his hand tight around my throat, fear and hopelessness and rage warring deep within my being.
That was the third time a person tried to murder me.
It was the night before the major turned shambler. He’d come in to visit Momma. It was late, and his footfalls were heavy as he climbed the stairs in a whiskey-fueled haze. He slammed the door open loud enough that even the aunties sleeping in the kitchen had heard the crash.
Momma, for her part, was unperturbed. She was busy reciting a bit of Shakespeare, The Tempest to be exact, when he walked in. I hadn’t been able to figure out why she wanted to read at such a late hour, but one glance at the major’s bleary-eyed glare and I had an inkling.
“Pet and I are reading, Jonas.” Momma never called me Jane in front of the major. Her own grandmother’s name had been Jane, and perhaps she feared that the coincidence would be enough to make the major peer more closely at my features, to compare my stubborn chin and narrow nose to Momma’s own features.
“Yer my wife,” he slurred. “I demand you fulfill your duties.”
“Your belly is full, your estate is safe and prosperous, and you’re drunk on whiskey from my own still. I’d say I’ve done more than enough to fulfill my duties.”
For a moment the air was heavy with tension, and I huddled closer to Momma, fearful of what was about to happen.
The major laughed, a bitter sound, before crossing the room and snatching me up by the back of my head and dragging me across the bed so that he could grab me by the throat. He lifted me up effortlessly, his large fingers wrapped around my neck.
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