Dread Nation

by Justina Ireland

  Voices echo up and down the line, more than I could’ve imagined would survive.

  “Check for bites, and give your companions a gentle end.” It’s the typical refrain for the end of a shambler battle, a way of giving people permission to kill anyone who has been bitten. I think of Mr. Gideon’s vaccine for a moment, but there’s no way that thing works. I could fill a train car with the number of shamblers we’ve seen who used to be part of the Summerland patrols.

  “Jane.” I startle at the light touch on my shoulder, spinning around. Bloodlust still sings in my veins, and it’s no easy thing to shut it off so quickly. Mr. Gideon jumps back, hands up in surrender. “You did it. They’re all dead. Again.”

  I wipe the back of my sleeve across my forehead, smearing viscera across my face. A quick glance down reveals that my sickles are covered in shambler’s blood, and I give them a quick spin to clear some of it off before scrubbing my face clean with my sleeve. “We got a casualty count?”

  “Not yet. A colored boy and a drover are walking the line and counting how many of those bodies used to be folks we know. Are you okay?”

  I grimace, even though he can’t see it in the low light. “Mostly. This could’ve gone better. I saw at least four people go down myself.”

  “It also could’ve gone a lot worse.”

  “Tell that to those who died.”

  A growl comes from over my shoulder. I spin around to remove the shambler’s head but its skull explodes, the monster falling back to the ground. I turn back to the tinkerer, who is very calmly reholstering his pistol.

  “So, you can use that thing after all.” My ears ring from the gunshot, but it’s preferable to being dead.

  Mr. Gideon’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the low light casting interesting shadows across his pale face. “So it seems.”

  “You know your serum don’t work, right? Just in case you were still wondering.” I gesture toward the shambler with a fresh hole in its head, thanks to Mr. Gideon. It’s poor Cary, the Georgian. “That’s one of our boys. He started the battle human.”

  Mr. Gideon says nothing for a long moment, his lips pressing together in a thin line. After a long moment he finally speaks. “The sheriff isn’t going to let you forget that you took over his little battle.”

  I shrug, taking the change of subject in stride. “No, he ain’t. But I’ll worry about that after I’ve cleaned up and had a good night’s rest. Right now I’m more concerned with making sure no one turns.”

  “And if they do?”

  “What do you think?’

  “My vaccine works,” he says, taking off his spectacles and wiping them with a handkerchief.

  I laugh. The man is more stubborn than a shambler. “Then consider me insurance.”

  He nods. “I do not envy you, Miss McKeene.”

  “Not many people do, Mr. Gideon. Not many do.”

  I hope you will understand my giving my heart to another. Someday, if not today, you will see that this life is nothing without people to love.

  Chapter 34

  In Which I Am Overcome by Dread

  When I was five, my momma tried to drown me.

  She thinks I don’t remember, that I was too young to recall the way she told the girls to draw her a bath, and how she put me in my best dress, the white one she’d used for my christening. By that point in my life it was too short to be decent, hitting me somewhere around my knees. But those were in the early days of the undead plague, when a trip into town could mean death by shambler, and we had to make do with what was at hand. That christening gown was the finest clothing I had.

  After the big, deep, claw-foot tub was filled—too full for a little girl, almost too full for a grown woman—Momma sent the girls away. Then she called me over.

  “Janey, sweetness, can you get in the tub, please?” I’d wondered why her voice sounded so strange, hoarse and broken, more like a bullfrog than my sainted Momma. I’d climbed into the tub without hesitation, standing in the water uncertainly. The christening gown rose up and swirled around my hips, the warm water hitting me at my belly button.

  “Janey, I need you to sit down.” Momma’s voice was stern, but still there was a quaver of uncertainty there.

  “But Momma, it’s too deep.”

  “Nonsense. It’s just the right amount of water. Go ahead and sit down, sweetling.”

  I hesitated, sinking down into a crouch. Momma had done the rest, lunging toward me and pushing me down, water sloshing all over the fine floor as I went under.

  This is where my memory gets hazy. I remember holding my breath, my lungs screaming for air, Momma’s hands on my chest. But more than anything I remember the feeling that I had done something wrong, that this was my fault.

  It was my fault that I’d barged in on Momma and her fine lady friends who were visiting from Frankfort, even though I’d been told to stay out of the sitting room.

  It was my fault that I’d beamed when Miss Davenport, Momma’s loathsome cousin by marriage, had mentioned what a precocious child I was and how familiar my features seemed.

  Most important, it was my fault that my skin was brown and Momma’s wasn’t and that she had the terrible misfortune to love me anyway.

  I don’t remember much after that. Auntie Aggie came in and pushed Momma to the side, lifting me up and thumping me on the back as I coughed up the water I’d swallowed. Momma had sobbed and Auntie Aggie had scolded her, wrapping me in a blanket and taking me down to the kitchens where she made me a cup of warm milk sweetened with honey. But it didn’t matter.

  For the next few months I lived in fear of my momma, and I never let her give me another bath. I loved her, even after that, but I knew better than to trust her the way I had before. She was like a dog that had bitten me, and you only need to be bitten once.

  I get the same uneasy feeling when I see Sheriff Snyder the next morning, after telling him off in front of the drovers the night before. I know I should be safe from him for the moment since Katherine walks with me, but I still can’t shake the sense that something bad is going to happen.

  We’re on our way to lunch with Mr. Gideon, who sent us a note stating he would meet us at the door to his lab. I follow behind Katherine, who looks absolutely stunning in a day dress bedecked with appliqué roses along the hem. It’s a cheap dress and several years out of style, yet she makes it look like the newest fashion plate from Paris.

  “Good morning, Miss Deveraux,” the sheriff says when he sees Katherine, tipping his hat. He looks toward me and I avert my eyes, attempting to look remorseful. My back is mostly healed from the last whipping, but most of the scabs pulled open last night and I’m of no mind to take another beating.

  Here’s a thing about me: I regret most of my actions five minutes after the fact. I’m rash in my decisions and I spend half my time trying to extricate myself from situations of my own making. But I don’t regret taking charge last night. Without me, we would have died and the town would have been overrun. So whatever the sheriff has planned for me, I have to believe that everyone’s survival was worth it.

  “Sheriff,” Katherine says, dipping into a slight curtsy. “How does this fine morning find you?”

  “Well, considering. We’ve refortified the breach in the outer wall and the patrols are back on the job. Did your girl fill you in on the details of our engagement last night?”

  “I’m afraid she did. We were on our way to see you so that she could offer you a formal apology for forgetting her place.” Katherine and I had decided this was the best course of action, a preemptive strike on whatever the sheriff had planned in retaliation. I also wanted to examine the shamblers in the daylight after speaking with Mr. Gideon, to see if there was anything different about them than the ones we’d faced back east. When I told Katherine about their strange behavior before the fighting started, she blanched.

  “Jane, can you just imagine the trouble we’d all be in if shamblers started reasoning the same way we do? It would be a cata
strophe,” she said. I agreed. Shamblers are dangerous because of their numbers. A group of the dead can easily overwhelm even a competent fighter if there are enough of them. But shamblers ain’t smart; they can be tricked by hiding, or by climbing a tree. If the dead have gained the ability to reason like normal men, well, that is a problem.

  “I’m afraid Jane’s intervention was warranted, Miss Katherine.” The sheriff’s words cut through my reverie and draw my gaze up in surprise. “I know I may seem like a . . . stubborn man at times, but I truly only want what is best for this town, and everyone here. Last night, that was letting Jane take charge of the line. We only lost three men and a handful of Negroes to the pack, and Jane’s instincts are to thank for that.”

  I fight to keep my surprise from my face, but I ain’t very successful. Katherine makes a small sound in the back of her throat before saying, “Well, Sheriff, thank you for that. I’d planned on disciplining Jane, but this will save me some effort.”

  “Of course, Miss Deveraux. Now, I must be off. Good day.” He tips his hat again. We watch him leave, his path taking him to the saloon, and after he’s entered the building I pinch Katherine’s arm.

  “Ow, Jane, what was that for?”

  “Something’s happening. There ain’t no way the sheriff is going to let a colored girl like me show him up in battle. You didn’t see him last night, the look he gave me when I called him out in front of the makeshift army. We need to figure out what’s going on here before it’s too late.”

  Katherine sighs. “Fine, Jane. What do you suggest?”

  “We need to put our plan in action sooner rather than later. Let’s go see the Duchess. If we can get our hands on some laudanum, we can slip it into his tobacco. While the sheriff is sleeping it off we hightail it out of town. Then, we won’t have to worry about whatever big bad is coming down the pike.”

  “I thought we agreed that we need to liberate everyone in Summerland, not just ourselves? Besides, I want to keep our lunch appointment with Mr. Gideon. His note indicated that whatever he wanted to share was of the utmost importance.”

  I swallow a sigh of exasperation. “Katherine, we ain’t got time for that. Something’s afoot, and we need to discover what it is.”

  “Exactly. And Mr. Gideon is our best hope for enlightenment.” Katherine sets off, heading toward the entrance to the lab, parasol propped on her shoulder.

  Mr. Gideon waits for us there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking a bit fidgety. He sees us and his face twists into a welcoming smile, his gaze lingering on Katherine perhaps a moment too long.

  The ugly jealous feeling lifts its head and roars, and I beat it back.

  “Miss Deveraux, so pleasant to see you. Miss McKeene . . .” Mr. Gideon tips his hat to us, and I force a tight smile out of politeness.

  “Mr. Gideon, so lovely of you to invite us to share the midday meal with you.”

  “Yes, and thank you for coming. I’d worried that after last night’s incident my overture came too late, but it looks like we still have a little time.”

  I grimace. “Mr. Gideon, no offense, but I ain’t really in the mood for riddles,” I say, even though I’m just supposed to be Katherine’s Attendant, a dark-skinned girl of no consequence.

  He smiles and inclines his head. “Of course, Miss McKeene. I think it might be easier to explain if I could show you the data I’ve collected.” Mr. Gideon offers Katherine his arm. “If you don’t mind, Miss Katherine. All of my research is down in my lab.”

  “Of course.” She takes the tinkerer’s arm and after a brief hesitation I stomp along behind them, fervently wishing I’d been born with golden skin and flaxen-streaked curls instead of hair like sheep’s wool and skin the color of dirt. It’s a completely irrational thought, but it’s hard knowing that my life could be much better had I only been born looking a bit more like my momma.

  We descend into the bowels of Mr. Gideon’s lab, and I am once again enthralled by the magical appearance of the place. The electric lights, the various mechanical pieces spread across the worktable, the shelf of neatly labeled solvents—the tinkerer’s laboratory is a completely different world than the one I was used to.

  Mr. Gideon walks over to a map marked with colored pins, removing his hat and hanging it on a nearby hook. He looks younger without it, and the weariness in the lines around his eyes is more pronounced.

  “I apologize that all I have to offer for the noon meal is some cheese and bread, but it looks like now even I am subject to the current rationing within the town.”

  “Is the rationing really because of the extra families or because the supply line from Baltimore is gone?” I ask, settling into a very comfortable looking brocade wing chair that is completely out of place in the otherwise functional lab. The chair is just as sumptuous as it looks, and I ignore the assessing look from Mr. Gideon and Katherine’s openmouthed surprise as I settle my backside into the cushions.

  “Jane, perhaps we could approach the manner a little more diplomatically?” Katherine murmurs, her expression somewhere between anger and fear. She looks at Gideon, and I realize that she doesn’t entirely trust him. I file that information away for later.

  “Look, Jackson hasn’t come back yet and we need answers. Last night I faced down a pack of shamblers that possessed intelligence I ain’t never seen before, the sheriff is probably even now plotting my death, and there is apparently nothing left of Baltimore County. I’m tired and I want answers, and it appears that Mr. Gideon has them, for better or worse.” I turn to the tinkerer. “Mr. Gideon?”

  He grins at me, a genuine smile that lights up his entire face. “In the interest of time, tell me what you know.”

  I very quickly fill Mr. Gideon in on the bits and pieces of information we gleaned from our brief reunion with Jackson. He nods as I speak, pulling out a small chair for Katherine and propping his hip on an empty workbench. When I’ve finished, he sighs. “It seems like you know quite a bit.”

  “So, is it true? Is Baltimore County really gone? Had we ever gotten an edge on the shambler plague, or was that all just some Survivalist nonsense?” Katherine asks.

  “A bit of both, I’m afraid. It’s more about politics. See, the war never really ended. When the dead began to walk at Gettysburg, both the Federal troops and the Confederates decided it was for the best to stop fighting each other and to fight the undead. And now, with life slowly returning to normal, there are plenty of folks with feelings about what the shambler plague means for the future of the country.

  “I am an Egalitarian, and my father was a Survivalist. Both the Egalitarians and the Survivalists have run on platforms that involve recapturing the cities of the East and making them safe. Baltimore, New York, Philadelphia—these places represent American civilization, and many figured that the only way to keep the country together would be to rebuild it.”

  I shake my head. “But people living that close to one another . . . all you need is for one person to go feral and the whole place is a shambler’s paradise.”

  Mr. Gideon nods. “Yes, and that’s what I’ve told my father for years. But he’s convinced that if you can sell people on a dream of security and prosperity, then the facts are irrelevant. And, he’s right. The Survivalists provided jobs—building the walls, manning the patrols, all of it in the name of the appearance of safety, of normalcy . . .” Mr. Gideon trails off and scrubs his hand across his face. “But holding onto the cities was never sustainable. There are too many factors we cannot account for, and soon even the Survivalist leaders—the mayors, the congressmen—realized that it wasn’t a long-term plan.”

  Katherine frowns prettily. “So, then, what was?”

  “Something like the compounds that have risen from the ashes of the lost Southern states. Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, they were all nearly destroyed by millions upon millions of shamblers, and what little pockets of humanity remained eventually pulled together under something like military law to survive. The compounds are n
othing more than a reinstitution of the plantation system.”

  “So we’re really just talking about prosperity built on the back of slavery once more,” I say.

  “Yes, a fresh coat of paint on the same old problems. My father is very good at that sort of thing.”

  “Who’s your father?” I ask, curiosity digging its claws into me.

  “Abraham Carr.”

  I jump to my feet. “What?”

  Katherine closes her eyes and reopens them. “You father is the mayor of Baltimore?”

  The tinkerer’s mouth twists with distaste. “Was the mayor of Baltimore, since the city is no more.” His voice is rueful, but there’s no sadness on his face.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Katherine asks.

  “Would you have trusted me if I had?”

  It’s a good question. I wonder for a moment if he had any other motives, but his words have a ring of truth to them, and I begin to pace. I think better when my feet are moving.

  “So Gideon ain’t your last name?”

  “No, it’s my first name. Gideon Carr.”

  I stop pacing. “All this time we’ve been using your first name as your surname and you never enlightened us. I guess because then we would’ve known who your daddy is?”

  “Yes. I suppose that was cowardly of me.”

  “Damn straight. So you’ll be okay with us just calling you Gideon now.”

  One side of his mouth quirks. “I suspect that conspiring to overthrow this town should put us on a first-name basis.”

  A thought occurs to me, and embarrassment flushes my face. “Wait, so when I was telling you all that mess about Kate being a lady and being taken in by the mayor and being booted by his wife—”

  “I knew it was a lie. I still exchange letters with my mother regularly. But you were so enamored of your story that it seemed a shame to tell you.” He grins, and I groan.

  “Let’s change the subject. Data, big news, and so forth?”

  Gideon adjusts his spectacles and stands once again. “Yes, of course.” He moves across the room to the map with the colored pins, his limp more pronounced than usual. “So, for the past two years I’ve been cataloging the makeup of the undead beyond the outer wall. Last night isn’t the first time a large group has been able to breach it. The sheriff’s wife was killed in a similar attack. Hence my extreme dissatisfaction with the sheriff, the pastor, and the inability of this blasted town to electrify the fences.”