Dread Nation

by Justina Ireland

  I hold out the sword and she takes it reverently. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’ll get you a whetstone and oil for it if you make it through this.”

  Her expression goes hard, fierce and determined. “Oh, I will.”

  I smile. “Good to know.” Momma used to say there were lots of ways to survive. Don’t be afraid to pretend to be something you aren’t, Jane. Sometimes a little subterfuge and chicanery is in order and the quickest way to achieve one’s goal. It ain’t hard to imagine Ida pretending to be just another dumb colored girl in order to make it out here. Survival by any means necessary.

  The sheriff rides up on his big horse. He exchanges a few words with Mr. Gideon, who gives me a nod as he rides back to the rear of the group.

  “My boys are opening up the armory next to the generator shack for everyone to equip themselves. Even the colored folks,” he says, giving me a pointed look. To one of his boys the sheriff says, “No guns for the darkies. The last thing we want is one of them shooting us in the back.”

  The man runs off and the sheriff turns back to the group. “You colored folks can avail yourselves of the bladed weapons. I see you even touch a rifle I’m going to have you put down.”

  It’s nice to know that even Summerland’s impending doom doesn’t make the sheriff change his mind about giving Negroes a fighting chance. Still, something is better than nothing.

  “The dead are about a mile or so to the east. The majority of them haven’t crossed the inner fence yet, and the patrols have been mopping up the stragglers all evening. We’ve lit the line so there’s some visibility. We’re going to ride out there and see if we can’t finish off the rest of the pack. The plan is to let them come to you. You cross that interior fence, you’re on your own. Is everyone clear?”

  There are silent nods of assent, and then everyone breaks off and files into the nearby armory. The drovers are allowed in first, and they come out holding rifles that look as near to new as anything I’ve ever seen.

  Finally it’s our turn, and I’m one of the first into the armory; the sight of it is enough to make me swear and cry happy tears all at the same time. Row upon row of bright, edged weapons are held in proper holders, their blades gleaming even in the low lamplight. A collective gasp goes up from the Negroes around me as they take in all of the fine implements before us. For the first time they are seeing just what the sheriff has done to us, day in and day out, sending us out to die on the front line with nothing but garden tools for defense when real weapons were waiting all the while behind lock and key. We could’ve cleaned out the plains with this arsenal.

  “I’d like to kill that man,” mutters the stocky boy next to me, his skin dark as pitch.

  “Get in line,” I say. He gives me a small smile, and stands next to me as the crowd clears out. I’m angry, and I want a moment to compose myself before I go back outside.

  The boy watches me, his gaze weighty. “What’re you looking for?”

  “Nothing. I got my sickles.”

  “Difficult weapon to wield.”

  “Only if you don’t know how.”

  “True, that.” He walks to the far shelf where the heavy weapons are kept and picks up the porcupine, a weighted wooden club with fierce metal spikes embedded in the rounded end. It doesn’t require a lot of skill to wield but does require a good bit of arm strength. “Maybe you should try one of these.”

  “Porcupine ain’t for me. I got chicken arms.”

  He laughs, the sound low. “Well, try not to get turned, Chicken Arms.”

  “You, too. And be patient, that lawman will get his just desserts.”

  His lips twist, filled with malice. “I ain’t yet seen the man who can do that.”

  “Maybe that’s your problem. You been waiting for a man.”

  He hefts the porcupine, propping it on his shoulder, expression thoughtful. “All right, then. My name’s Lucas. You need any help with anything, you let me know.”

  He leaves without waiting for my answer. I grab a small throwing knife, slipping it into my boot before I exit. I pass Bill on my way. I give him my best smile and he stops.

  “What’re you grinning about?”

  “I want my penny back, Bill.”

  He chuckles mirthlessly. “You ain’t getting it. Besides, you got bigger things to fret about. I’d bet you won’t last till morning.”

  “I will. And when I do, I’m going to march right back here and take what’s mine. You got my promise on that.”

  Bill gives me a hard look. “Keep walking, you crazy-ass coon.”

  I don’t let the slur move me, because I feel more confident than I have in a long while. Instead, I just level a flat look at Bill.

  “You have no idea.”

  Jane, as this is my last letter, I suppose I should finally confess the news that I’ve been afraid to share these long few months, wondering if you were ever going to return home: I have decided to take a husband. A fine man, to be sure. I am most assured you will find him every bit as enchanting as I do.

  Chapter 33

  In Which I Demonstrate My Worth

  The sheriff sets a grueling pace out to the rendezvous point. Halfway through the run I understand why he picked the people he did to accompany him. Because it’s all Summerland has to offer. There are only about thirty of us in all, mostly Negroes, with a few of the younger roughnecks to round out the ranks. It ain’t nearly enough people to defend a town of this size.

  We keep pace with the horses’ canter, following the lanterns the riders carry. A few of my wounds pull open during the run, the blood dampening the back of my dress, but it’s nothing compared to the exhaustion I read on the drovers’ faces. There ain’t enough horses to go around, and a few of the younger men have to run with the colored folks. I end up keeping pace with a sandy-haired youth with a sparse beard. He looks to be around my age, and he gasps like a fish on a riverbank as we run.

  “Take deeper breaths,” I say, trying to help him out.

  “Don’t need yer help,” he snaps, his accent thick and rich like good gravy.

  “Well, you keep panting like a dog and you’re like as not to pass out, and you don’t want that, do you? You’re much easier to kill flat on your back.” From his new boots and sad beard I surmise he’s a boy trying to be a man, and the last thing he’s going to want is to have a fainting spell like some fine corseted lady.

  He stops gasping and begins to breathe deeper, and I swallow a smile. “What’s your name?”

  “Cary. Cary MacAfee.”

  “You a Scotsman, Cary?”

  “My daddy was a Scotsman. I’m a Georgian.”

  “That explains the accent. What brings you out here to the middle of the frontier?”

  “Damn, girl, you sure are chatty for someone about to die,” he says.

  “Oh, I ain’t about to die. This is a normal night’s work for me.” Already his breathing is easing up, and the wide-eyed panic in his face is receding. He’s forgotten that he’s running and started letting his body do what it was built to do, and now everything is a little easier. That’s good. He needs to save his energy for the shamblers.

  The people ahead of us stop suddenly, and there are screams as a horse rears, whinnying in surprise.

  “It’s the dead!” someone yells.

  “Get on line!” yells the sheriff, terror in his voice.

  We form up, moving with all haste. It’s an old Army tactic, marching in a row and mowing the enemy down as you move forward. The problem is we ain’t soldiers. We’re a few untried roughnecks with rifles and a bunch of Negroes with reasonably sharp knives. So instead of orderly precision, it’s chaos as everyone begins moving around in the dark, the moonlight too dim to see much.

  “We need light!” I yell. “Turn up the lanterns!”

  Someone heeds my call, and one by one the lanterns are turned up as high as they will go. From behind me, the tinkerer calls out. “Hold a moment, I’ve got something that can help.” There’s
a hollow pop and then what looks like a shooting star flares suddenly to life over our heads, turning the night day-bright. I glance at the scene before us and gasp. I’d been expecting forty shamblers, nothing that a group our size couldn’t take care of. But there are easily a couple hundred undead moving toward us, many newly turned and moving so quickly that for a moment a dark wave of fear threatens to drown me. The nearest ones are about a hundred yards away, swarming over what I’m reasonably sure was once a horse and rider.

  “Mother Mary,” Cary says, and I get a glimpse of his face, wide-eyed with panic.

  “Listen to me,” I say. “You are not going to panic. You’re going to stay calm, and you’re going to survive this. You panic, you’re dead. You got that?” He whimpers assent, and I pat him on the back. “Good. Now listen. They ain’t going to try to fool you; all you got to do is let them come to you. Wait for them to get close, and kill them for good this time. That ain’t so hard.”

  The shamblers’ growls grow louder. The lamps the riders carry illuminate the silhouettes of the dead, magicking them into lumbering caricatures of humanity. The closest members of the pack shift their attention to us.

  “Get on line!” the sheriff calls again, alarm clear in the timbre of his voice. The fear amongst the drovers is thick now, and I ain’t surprised when one of the men bolts, hightailing it back to town. One of the riders curses and chases after him, and the indecision of the other white men is clear as they weigh their own lives against . . .

  What? Why exactly are these men here? Wealth and fortune? A country like the one they had before the war, one that some of them only know from stories? When are these damn fools going to realize that world is gone, and they ain’t never getting it back? The tall tales they’ve been told ain’t worth their lives, either way.

  But these drovers are here now, and without them fighting alongside us Negroes, I don’t see how any of us are going to survive the night.

  I twirl my sickles. I’ve learned a lot in the past few years. Including that a group of panicked people ain’t that different from a herd of sheep. Nip at their heels a little and they’ll go wherever you tell them to.

  “All right, get on line.” The words come out louder than I intend, and while I have the attention of my companions, ain’t no one moving their feet. Yet. “That wasn’t an invitation. Get moving, unless you want to be shambler bait. Line up, double arm interval. Mind your neighbor, make some friends. You ain’t got time for indecision.”

  My voice carries over the moans of the approaching shamblers, steady and assured. Surprisingly enough people start moving, quick shadows in the dark.

  “You there, with the lanterns. Hand them down, make a line.” The riders are hesitant to give up their light, and I snap my fingers in irritation, like Momma would’ve done. “You ain’t helping anyone shining it down in our eyes like that. Hand them down, and let’s get them lined up every few feet.”

  The sheriff rides over, horse dancing in agitation, the beast’s temperament a mirror of its rider’s. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Saving your damn town. You might feel like a big man when you have your boys at your side and you’re pushing a bunch of Negroes around, but shamblers don’t care about your badge, or your guns, or the fact that you’re the preacher’s son. You’re just as scared as everyone else here, and so someone’s got to save our skins. Now you can stand here and try to stop me, or you can ride back and start preparing folks for the hell that’s going to rain down upon them if we fail.”

  The sheriff is quiet for a moment, giving me the darkest of looks, before riding off without a word. I know that I’ll have some misery to sort through later, but for right now I’m more interested in surviving.

  “All right, let’s take a big step back. You’re going to keep the lanterns between you and the dead. Keep talking, keep chattering. Remember, the dead don’t talk. Let your pals know you ain’t a shambler.” I turn out into the abyss before us, still lit softly by the tinkerer’s firework. The riders have fallen back behind the line of fighters on the ground, and the shamblers are quickening their pace as they move toward us. “Mr. Gideon!”

  “Yes, Miss McKeene?”

  “How long does that illumination of yours last?”

  “A couple of minutes. But I have more flares here with me. Shall I fire them at regular intervals?”

  “That’ll do well. Please give us a cue before every launch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” There’s a teasing tone in his voice, and it’s enough to draw a smile from me.

  The line is shoddy, but secure. The Negroes crouch in the ready position, while the drovers don’t look like they know what to do with themselves. You can always tell a combat school-educated fighter. Mr. Gideon’s flare has nearly gone out, darkness encroaching on the plain once more.

  “Do not cross the line! Let the shamblers come to you!” I shout.

  “Kill the fresh ones first,” someone says.

  “Take one down, move on to the next—there’s always another!” someone else shouts helpfully.

  Bits and pieces of basic combat advice continues to echo through the line. “Up and across, never down,” “Maintain your balance; lose your footing, lose your life,” and so on and so forth, until the night is filled with the shouts of roughnecks and Negroes, all of us ready to fight for our lives.

  I wait, one heartbeat, another, straining my ears for the telltale sounds of the shamblers until my pulse pounds in my ears. The dead weren’t all that far off when the light faded, and the fact that we’ve yet to have one stumble into the light of our lanterns is more than a little strange.

  I don’t much care for things I can’t explain.

  “Flare’s up!” the tinkerer calls, and the night is lit once more. My blood goes cold despite the warm air, and the calls of encouragement on the line die a vicious death as we take in the sight before us.

  The shamblers are there, a few feet outside of the glow cast by the lanterns, motionless. In the sudden absence of our shouts it’s easy to hear their growls, muted to the point that they’re less a moan and more a whisper of sound. They just stand there, weaving in place like drovers on payday, drunk and barely coherent. Waiting. Almost as if it were they who were hunting us.

  Fear floods my mind, tries to make me believe I’ve lost before I’ve even begun. I adjust my grip on my sickles and roll my shoulders.

  “Ain’t no one but the dead dying today!” I scream as the flare’s light softens. Defiance, rage, and terror lace my voice. I refuse to quit, and I won’t let my companions fail, either. “Only the dead die today!”

  Up and down the line others take up the call. Impossibly, the shamblers answer our defiant roar with one of their own.

  And then they’re upon us.

  They come fast and hard, the freshies leading the pack. I detach a woman’s head from her body and move on to the man behind her. As I harvest, I shout out to my fellow combatants.

  “Stay behind the line!”

  “Make them come to you!”

  “The newly dead die first!”

  I continue to yell, swallowing hard when my voice starts to go. I mark time by the flares the tinkerer fires, and the third one has just gone up when to my left one of the roughnecks goes down, screaming as the dead begin to devour him.

  The wet sound of the dead feeding and the man’s fading cries cuts through my heavy breathing and the growls of other approaching shamblers. I fall back enough to end the dead that surround the drover, kicking their heads to the side so I don’t trip over them, grabbing the knife that the roughneck still clutches in his hand and driving it through his eye. I ain’t got time to mourn the fallen, but I need to make sure there ain’t any enemies at my back. There are more dead to kill.

  Even though I continue to yell encouragement, the drovers are being overwhelmed. We’re outnumbered nearly four to one, and it’s easy to see that the roughnecks ain’t soldiers. They fire blindly into the dark, and most of them grabbed
guns but no bladed weapons. They’re quickly out of bullets. We lose a few drovers, and one girl from the patrol as well. When I see Cary bash a shambler’s skull in with the butt of his pistol I realize it’s time for another tactic.

  “Riflemen, to the rear! Everyone else, close up those holes.” The drovers fall back, and the rest of us cover down to take up their slack. “Shoot until you’re out of ammo, then fall back.” I look behind me, but I can’t tell if anyone is listening anymore. The air is thick with the putrid scent of the dead, and my hands are slick with shambler goo. Still, the dead keep on coming, and I can’t do anything but continue to swing my sickles.

  Time ceases to exist for me. There is only the constant moan of shamblers, the swing of my sickles as I harvest, the inevitable double thump when the creatures fall to the ground, head rolling one way, body the other. I’m amassing quite a pile of dead before me, and I take a few steps back, giving myself a bigger space to work. From down on the line someone calls out, “‘Ain’t no pain in heaven, but there ain’t no you, either.’”

  Someone sings the next line, “‘Ain’t no shamblers in heaven, but there ain’t no you, either.’”

  “‘Ain’t no killing in heaven, but since there ain’t no you, I’m gonna fight to stay here.’”

  I don’t know the song and I’ve got a terrible singing voice, so I just listen, letting my arms move to the rhythm of the words as the voices continue to sing, lifting my spirits and making the fighting easier.

  I’ve killed ten, fifteen, maybe twenty shamblers when the sky lights up again, revealing the vacant prairie. I drop my arms to my side, heaving as I gasp for air. My arms burn from swinging them, and even though I’m an absolute mess I feel particularly light.

  “I’m clear,” I yell. “Tell us where you are and that you’re still out there.”