Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(18)
“That big, dumb fool up there is about to turn into a shambler, and everyone is just going to let it happen,” I whisper curtly. “Do you really think I could sit back and say nothing?”
“If Professor Ghering says—”
“Professor Ghering just said you ain’t much more than livestock. You really gonna put faith in that man’s words?”
That shuts her up, and I turn my attention back to the stage.
The professor marches over to where Othello stands next to the cage, a matter-of-fact smile on the academic’s face. Othello ain’t smiling. He looks terrified. Second thoughts and all that. “Now, go ahead and stick your hand in the cage,” the professor says. In the audience someone coughs, and the crowd is so quiet that it echoes like a gunshot.
Othello just stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looks at the shamblers, and then back at the professor, who clears his throat and gestures toward the cage. The shamblers are reaching through the bars, their faces pressed into the spaces between, their mouths agape. “Go on, Othello. There’s nothing to fear.” His voice is kind and confident. Othello turns to the crowd, and for a moment I think that maybe he’s finally going to put a stop to this, walk away and live out whatever time he has left in this world.
That’s when his shoulders slump, and he sticks his arm out.
They’re on him before he gets more than his fingers into the cage. One of them gets a hold of his hand and pulls him closer, biting down on his arm like it’s a drumstick. Othello’s shout of pain echoes through the auditorium, and in the rows ahead of us a few of the ladies get the vapors. Their girls are on them immediately, passing smelling salts under their noses and escorting them out, half carrying them. I’m sad to see that Maisie Carpenter is one of them. She was a solid marksman. It would be nice to have her here when it all goes to hell.
Up on stage, the professor and another man are pulling Othello back from the cage and settling him into the stage’s lone chair. The shamblers are frantic now that they got the taste of fresh meat. They sniff the air, their yellow eyes scanning the crowd as they look for their next meal. Someone should walk up onstage and put them down, but no one is paying any attention to the caged dead. Instead, everyone is focused on Othello, leaning back in his chair, panting like a man that just ran a footrace.
“Kate . . . ,” I begin.
“Jane, I am not sure why you insist on calling me by that horrid nickname, but if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a million times—”
“Look at the stage, Kate. Look at Othello.”
Her gaze meets mine. “He’s going to turn.”
Professor Ghering addresses the crowd. His benign smile is less sure now, and people in the audience are beginning to speak amongst themselves, concern rising like the tide. “Please, calm yourselves. Othello is quite unaffected, but even if something should go wrong, research has shown that a living person bitten by a shambler will take at minimum a half hour to turn. If we all check our pocket watches—”
“I’m afraid that estimate is incorrect, Professor.” Miss Duncan stands, her voice ringing out loud and clear over the rest of the crowd. It’s the same voice that has led us in countless drills, and everyone stops talking. “I know it’s likely been a while since you city folk have witnessed a turning, but those that have been bitten can and do change immediately. The thirty-minute rule is outdated and has been summarily disproven by Mr. Pasteur over in France. I recommend we evacuate now, before we have a catastrophe on our hands.”
The professor opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a low growl comes from the rear of the stage. Othello stands behind the good professor. His eyes are yellow. Saliva drips from his mouth and his lips are turned up in a feral snarl.
He leaps.
Shouts of alarm echo throughout the auditorium. In the cage, the other shamblers are going wild, throwing themselves against the bars in an attempt get a bite of their own. People panic like a herd of spooked cattle, men and women pushing against one another to get out of the lecture hall. No one ever keeps a cool head when shamblers are about.
“Ladies.” We’re on our feet at Miss Duncan’s gentle summons. “Katherine, go out and see if you can get a rifle from one of the men who were supposed to be guarding the door. Jane, take the sidearm under your skirts and put those shamblers down.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but Miss Duncan gives me a stern look. “Not now, Jane. We shall discuss your concealed weapon later, in addition to your highly improper outburst. Girls,” she says, turning to the younger ones, some of whom are crying. They’ve probably never seen a shambler go after a man like Othello is going after the professor. Or if they have, the sight is probably waking some very unpleasant memories. “We need to stay calm and escort these nice people out of the building before they trample one another. Jane, if you could get their attention?”
I nod, reaching up under my skirts and pulling out my revolver. I fire a shot into the air, and the sound is enough to startle folks out of their terror for just a moment.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, “if you would be so good as to follow Miss Preston’s girls out of the lecture hall, we have the situation under control.”
That last bit is a lie, but the easiest lie to tell is the one people want to believe. Even though a man is being devoured onstage, they’re still more worried about their own hides. They begin to file out quickly but much more calmly, the professor all but forgotten.