Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(11)
Chapter 4
In Which I Dodge Unwanted Advances and Engage in a Bit of Blackmail
I’m staring at the scenery outside the window of the pony, brain tangled in bloody memories and a few regrets, when Miss Duncan asks me, “So, Jane, what do you think?”
I blink and sit up, suddenly quite conscious of the two pairs of eyes on me. “I’m sorry, Miss Duncan, I wasn’t listening. What are my thoughts on what exactly?”
Miss Duncan gives me a polite smile. “On the reason behind the dead rising. Of course, we’ve all heard preachers insisting that it’s our sins, of one sort or another, that have caused this plague upon our soil. But the country’s best minds have been trying to ascertain a scientific basis, and they are quite divided on the cause and the reasoning behind it. I’m curious as to what you think.”
I clear my throat and nod. I’m wondering why science is a better discussion topic than politics, but I don’t say anything because that would be entirely too cheeky. Miss Duncan is a strange one, always talking to Negroes like she cares what they have to say. But I like her well enough, so I indulge her question.
“Well, I have been read—hearing some folks talk on the subject, and I think it’s a tiny little critter that causes the infection. You know, like the same thing that makes milk sour.”
If Miss Duncan noticed my near-admission to having gotten my hands on a medical journal, she doesn’t show it. Meanwhile, Katherine stares at me with her mouth slightly agape. “A tiny creature, inside of the dead. What, like a mouse?”
I shake my head, feeling agitated and frustrated. “No, not like a mouse. Smaller. Like, too small to be seen with your eye. Microscopic. I read an article in the evening post a few weeks ago about a man named Joseph Lister over in England. See, he had a whole bunch of patients dying from infections, so he started sterilizing his surgical equipment with alcohol—”
Katherine frowns. “So now you’re saying that we should all drink ourselves stupid to avoid being turned into one of the restless dead?”
“No, not like that. The alcohol kills the tiny critters, like cleaning a mess up with soap.” Both Miss Duncan and Katherine are staring at me like I’m speaking in tongues. I let out a breath and fall back onto the unyielding seat. “Never mind,” I mutter.
This always happens when I start talking about complicated stuff with people. In my head the ideas are so clear and make perfect sense, but when the words come out they’re a mess. They might be looking at me like I’m insane, but the stuff I’m saying is true. That’s the thing with me. Once I read something, I know it forever. Whether I’m supposed to be reading it or not.
Miss Duncan gives me another small, pitying smile. “Well, Jane, that certainly is an interesting theory.”
We bump along in a decidedly uncomfortable silence. I can almost feel Katherine’s self-righteousness swelling up and filling the carriage. I bet she can’t wait to get back to her know-it-all friends and tell them how Jane McKeene is a mad half-wit that believes in invisible creatures swimming around in our blood. The rest of the trip passes in uneasy silence. There ain’t even any more shamblers outside the carriage window to break up the monotony of dirt and trees and the occasional farmstead.
Finally we approach the high stone walls of Baltimore. On this side, it’s covered in scaffolding, and men at the top appear to be adding more stones and bobbed wire. That thing’s tall enough if you ask me, but I suppose you can’t be too careful. We wait as the massive main gates of the west entrance are opened for us, and then pass into the city, the carriage letting us off at a central stop. The cobblestones are a nice change from the hard-packed dirt roads of the country. There are dirt roads in other parts of Baltimore, but this part of the city nearest to city hall has nicer streets.
I climb down, and while the rest of the girls disembark I study the gates. They are monstrously huge; I heard tell that each one takes three strong men to open and close. The wrought iron is painted black. Red, white, and blue ribbons are woven though the bars. Nearby a sign proclaims:
Come celebrate the five-year anniversary of the construction of Central Gate
on Rising Day, July 2nd, 1880
A project funded by Mayor Abraham Carr and the Survivalist Party
Dancing, food, and fireworks!
It would be nice to go dancing, but that celebration ain’t for me. No way colored folks would be allowed at a Survivalist shindig. Not unless we were serving the punch, that is.
Right before Katherine gets off the pony, she pokes me in the side. “I want my bonnet back right after the lecture, you lying thief,” she says, low enough that Miss Duncan can’t hear. She goes off to join her friends, a couple of younger girls who are just as well-dressed as she is.
I scratch at the frizzy mass of my hair and watch her walk away. I’m feeling mighty out of sorts, and I ain’t sure this day could get any worse.
“Hey there, Janey-Jane. What you doing in town?”
I turn around and coming down the walk toward me is Jackson Keats.
I was wrong. It just got worse.
Jackson swaggers up, his derby pulled low over his eyes. His light brown skin is more red than tan, which is how he got his nickname, Red Jack. Jack’s a true redbone, fair enough that you know at least a few of his people come from Europe, not Africa. His close-cropped curls even bear a hint of auburn. I once met an Irishman with hair the same color. He weren’t long for this world, seeing as how he got put down by a shambler, but I think of that poor fool every time I see Jackson.