Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(2)
My arms tremble as I hold the scythe up in the ready position: vicious curved blade pointing down, body-length handle at an angle across my chest. Miss Duncan waits until I’m about to scream from the holding before she gives me a small nod and turns back to the class.
“Aaaaaaaaaand, relax.”
The scythes drop and the group of us let out audible gasps of relief. I shake my arms out, one after another, willing the burn to go away. Next to me, Big Sue catches my eye.
“She ain’t human,” she mutters, talking about Miss Duncan. I nod. No, Miss Duncan ain’t human. Because there ain’t no way a normal woman, and a white woman at that, could survive ten years in the Army hunting down shamblers. I can just imagine how that went, the other soldiers falling all over themselves to lay down their jackets every time Miss Duncan needed to cross a puddle. No, I cannot believe a woman could maintain her virtue and serve honorably with the troops out west. So while I do believe Miss Duncan is a fine instructor, I do not believe that she is human. Perhaps she’s a revenant, like the creature in Mr. Alexander Westing’s latest weekly serial “The Ghost Knocks Thrice.” Miss Duncan is pretty enough; I tend to think she would make a fine revenant, possessing the bodies of young women and using them to avenge crimes of passion. Of course, that raises the question as to why Miss Duncan is here at Miss Preston’s instead of out seeking her vengeance. Perhaps even revenants need steady employment.
“All right, again. Scythes up.”
I lift my weapon, focusing on Miss Duncan and trying to decide if she is indeed a revenant instead of thinking about the deep burning in my poor scrawny arms.
“And, on my count. One, two, three, SLASH!”
As we go through the movements for what has got to be the hundredth time—God’s honest truth—I watch Miss Duncan walking carefully around us, just out of range of our one-two-three-slashing. Today her brown hair is pulled into what my momma would call a messy knot at the back of her head. She wears a prim, high-collared dress of moss-green cotton, perfect for the warm weather we’re having. Her skirts are a little higher than a real lady would wear, midcalf just like the rest of us, modesty leggings underneath. The shorter length of the skirts is supposed to let us kick shamblers easylike and not trip us up if we need to run. I think we’d have to get all scandalous like the working girls down in the city, hems barely brushing our knees with nothing but bare leg beneath, if we wanted to really be able to run comfortably. But that’s a whole other conversation.
I slash the scythe across the empty air until my arms feel like overcooked green beans, limp and wobbly. A glance toward the observation pavilion at the edge of the practice ground reveals why we’re being worked like rented girls.
A couple of white women in fashionable day dresses stand under the awning of the pavilion, a white wooden structure covered in wisteria erected specifically for the comfort of the fine ladies that sometimes visit Miss Preston’s looking to engage an Attendant. An Attendant’s job is simple: keep her charge from being killed by the dead, and her virtue from being compromised by potential suitors. It is a task easier said than done.
“Sue,” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Who’re those white ladies?”
She glances over toward the pavilion and grunts. “Don’t know. But those dresses are from this season, so they must be somebody important.”
“Well, at least now I know why Miss Duncan is determined to make our arms fall off. We ain’t seen finery like that around here in a fair while.”
Sue grunts again, which this time I take as agreement.
Finally the evening bell rings, and Miss Duncan turns toward the main building.
“That’s all for today, ladies. Before you go, I have a treat! Mrs. Spencer has brought lemonade for you, with ice.”
On the edge of the green is Mrs. Spencer, a white woman whose farm borders the school. She waves at us, and everyone starts to chatter excitedly about the prospect of lemonade. Miss Duncan ain’t finished, though. “I will see most of you later this evening for the lecture at the university. Please make sure you wear your Sunday best for this fine event.” Miss Duncan watches as we heft our scythes and head over to the table Mrs. Spencer has set up.
“Hello, girls, hello. There are cookies as well!” Mrs. Spencer grins at us. The Spencers are the nicest white people I’ve ever met, and at least once a week Mrs. Spencer brings us a treat to enjoy after we’re done with our training. Next to her stands a smaller girl with pale skin and a smattering of freckles, her hair in pigtails. I smile at her.
“Hey there, Lily,” I say as she hands me a cup of lemonade.
She gives me a tight smile but doesn’t say a word. Once upon a time I used to keep an eye on Lily for her brother, but that’s our secret.
I drink the lemonade too quickly, sweet and tangy and cold, and watch as Miss Duncan invites a few girls over to talk to the fine ladies. I ain’t in the mood to play show pony, so I file into the building with the other girls, heading back to the armory to secure our weapons. Big Sue falls into step next to me.
“You going to that lecture?” Her voice is deep, and she sings a fine baritone in church. She’s the tallest of us here, big and dark and imposing, with arms like John Henry. But she’s also ace-high at braiding, and my own perfectly straight braids are thanks to her nimble fingers. She’s the closest thing to a friend I got here, just all around a nice person, and that’s something Aunt Aggie taught me you don’t find too often in this world. So even though Big Sue might be a little dense sometimes, she’s my friend, and that’s that.