Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(19)

It’s a cruel, cruel world. And the people are the worst part.





And I daresay you would be incredibly impressed with my marksmanship skills. I am a crack shot, far beyond any of the other girls, and that is not boastfulness. I often wonder if part of that might be due to your tutelage at Rose Hill.





Chapter 6


In Which All Hell Breaks Loose


I push my way through the crowd to the front of the room, where Othello has just about had his fill of the professor. Ghering is still mostly alive, but before I put him out of his misery I have to put down Othello.

While at Miss Preston’s I’ve ended enough dead to give myself a lifetime of nightmares. The trick is not to think of them as regular folks. When you do that, your emotions get all tangled up. You start to wonder whether it’s right or wrong and what kind of person that makes you for taking their life, whatever kind of existence it may be. Your brain starts doubting, and those second thoughts can get you killed.

But when you think of shamblers as things, as mindless creatures who have to be put down so that we might live, ending them gets to be a lot easier. The farmer doesn’t cry over slaughtering a hog.

So that’s what I think about when I slay shamblers. Not who they might have once been and what kind of life there is after death, but how them being gone makes the people I care about safer, and how each body gets me closer to getting back home to my momma and Rose Hill Plantation.

For Othello, his end puts me one step closer to my beginning. I don’t even flinch when I put the bullet in his head. This close to the stage, it’s an easy shot.

Suffice it to say, the result is untidy.

I climb the stairs to the stage and look down at Professor Ghering. He’s a mess. His throat is missing and his fancy waistcoat is soaked with blood. He ain’t breathing, and most folks would usually assume that means he’s not getting up again. But I know better. My time at Miss Preston’s has taught me a few things. In all my killing the dead, this is the first time I’ve stood over a man I thought deserved it.

“I ain’t sorry this happened to you. With a fool’s pride comes disgrace. Or something like that.” I don’t know what good it is to say I told you so to a dead man, but it makes me feel a little bit better, especially after being humiliated for speaking out. I shoot Professor Ghering right between the eyes, just as I did Othello, then once more, because seeing a man so casually turned for some blowhard’s cause has put me in a fine temper. I’m about to holster my revolver when there’s a low growl behind me.

The thing about a shambler’s cage is that it ain’t designed to hold anything long-term. When you set those traps up you’re supposed to hide somewhere nearby, so you can put the dead down real quick. Unfortunately Professor Ghering and his Survivalist cronies thought they were smarter than the average foot patrol.

So I shouldn’t be surprised when the iron lock finally breaks loose, releasing three blood-crazed shamblers.

What is left of the departing crowd goes frantic. People nearest the stage shout in alarm and begin shoving. Their fear draws the attention of the shamblers, and one of them jumps off the raised platform, right down into the seats.

I’m quicker on the draw, and once I get a bead on the shambler, I put him down with a head shot. But the crowd’s already spooked. I ain’t got time to worry about a bunch of dandies running for their lives.

Shamblers ain’t like normal people, but they do have an eerie ability to recognize a threat when they see it. Putting down their hunting buddy effectively made me a target, and when the two remaining shamblers turn toward me, slack mouths open in a hungry growl, I know I’m in for it.

They stalk toward me across the stage. Inside, my heart is pounding, my blood thrumming in my ears as the fear response urges me to run run run. But I ain’t no coward. I’ve got two shots left. I just need to make them count.

I line up my sights on the bigger shambler and squeeze the trigger. The revolver recoils, smoke filling the air. He drops and I take aim at the last one. She opens her mouth wide, growling low in her throat. She’s fresh dead, so she doesn’t have the blackened saliva that so many of the older ones do. Still, drool runs down her chin and the front of her calico dress. I feel bad for her. She wasn’t rich in life, her clothing belying her poverty, and even her death has been insulting. Changed into a shambler, locked up in a cage, paraded onstage. That ain’t a fitting end for anyone.

I think through all of this in the few heartbeats between lining up my shot and pulling the trigger.

Click. Empty.

Quickly I count through my shots. One in Othello. Two in the professor. One in the jumper, and another in the other male. That’s only five.

And one in the air to get everyone’s attention, Jane, you damn fool.

The shambler ain’t waiting for me to figure out what happened to my last bullet. She vaults toward me, a murderous blur set on a collision course with disaster. I swear—under my breath because a lady’s Attendant never curses aloud—and brace myself for impact.

A shot rings out, and I turn to see an Attendant in the middle of the aisle, her hands shaking. Behind her is a crumpled heap of crinolines and lace. The Attendant’s charge has passed out, and the woman’s serving girl is trying to alternately drag her or revive her with smelling salts while the Attendant provides a distraction.