Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(27)
“Lily is fair,” Jackson says. “She’s passing, like you, Katherine. I figured if she lived with a white family, the education officers would leave her alone. The Spencers are Egalitarians, and they don’t truck with the Survivalists and all their nonsense about Negroes being inferior.” Jackson sits heavily in one of the chairs. “I just wanted to keep her safe.” There’s so much heartache in his voice that I almost go to him, almost offer what little comfort I can. But that ain’t my place anymore, and I swallow my concern like a bitter draught.
That’s when a chorus of bells sounds from out behind the house, and I quickly extinguish the lantern.
Something tripped an alarm.
Jackson is moving toward the back of the house, and Katherine peers out the window. “There are people approaching.” She turns around, her expression indistinguishable in the dark. “They don’t look like the dead.”
I join her at the window, and she’s right. A lantern swings back and forth in the night, revealing at least three people. “Those ain’t shamblers, but I’m betting they’re trouble nonetheless.”
Jackson waves us back toward the bedroom. “The Spencers have a shamblers’ hole. This way.”
We hurry through the house. In the windowless rear bedroom he flips back the rug, revealing a small door in the floor. He pulls it up and we tumble down into the darkness. I feel around, moving forward until my hands brush against a dirt wall. I half expect to kick something soft and yielding in the dark until Red Jack whispers, “They ain’t down here. This is the first place I checked when I couldn’t find them.”
I’m wondering why Jackson dragged us out here in the middle of the night if he’s already checked the house thoroughly. But there’s no time to ask him now. He pulls the trapdoor shut, and the small space is loud with the sound of our breathing. A shamblers’ hole is a last resort when a homestead gets overrun. Sometimes hiding out away from the dead for an hour or so can mean the difference between life and undeath.
The Spencers’ hole was built for a family, so there’s more than enough room to move around. I take deep breaths and force my heart to slow, Jackson and Katherine doing the same. Less than a dozen breaths later the sound of boots on the wooden porch echoes through the house, along with voices.
For a moment, I think maybe this is it. Maybe this is my final moment, the scene that leads to my death. But the penny in the hollow of my throat is warm to the touch, and I know that this ain’t the end. When it’s time for me to die that penny will be cold, of that I have no doubt.
The realization is calming, and my heart finally settles down. Someone grabs my hand in the dark and squeezes. I ain’t sure whose hand it is, but I squeeze back anyway. Not because I’m scared, but because it just seems like the right thing to do.
The boots pause for several long moments before advancing into the house. Once inside, it’s a lot easier to decipher what the voices are saying.
“I saw a light on in here. I know I did.” The boots sound closer, walking toward us. They pause over our heads.
“I didn’t see anything. You sure you aren’t imagining things? You’ve been skittish ever since we left. Even tripped over that warning alarm like a greenie.” The voice is hoarse and accompanied by a rasping cough. I recognize the second speaker.
Someone grabs my arm, hard. I swallow a yelp. “That’s Miss Anderson,” Katherine whispers, her breath warm on my ear.
A feeling, half sick and half rage, blooms in my middle. If Miss Anderson is involved, then I know those folks above can’t be up to any good.
“Rupert’s got a thing about shamblers,” a third voice says, low and even. “Too much time out west in the wide open. He thinks he’s safer behind the walls in Baltimore than he is out here.” There are footsteps, and the voice sounds again from a new place. “Come on, we need to clean out what’s left. The mayor wants everything belonging to the Spencers packed up and out of here by morning.”
The voices subside, and I lean back against the dirt wall and let myself think. What did that mean? Did the Spencers leave of their own accord? Or did something happen to them, and these people are trying to cover it up? There’s no way to tell, and Jackson looks fit to burst as we listen to the people above move in and out of the house.
“That’s it,” comes a voice from above after a little while. “We don’t need to pack up the bigger furniture. Mayor said just their personal items need to be collected. Now, what are we going to do with the rest of this stuff? Sell it?”
There’s a cough, and Miss Anderson says, “Have some respect. These aren’t pickaninnies we’re talking about. The Spencers are a fine upstanding family.”
I clench my hands at the slur rolling off of the lips of one of my instructors. I knew there was a good reason I didn’t like that woman. If I could deck her I would, but I’m trapped in a hole in the dark, so all I can do is listen as she keeps talking.
“You and a few of your boys can come back tomorrow and get the rest,” she continues. “Load it on their pony in the barn and send it along on the next train.”
“I ain’t coming back here again!” says Rupert. “Are you out of your mind?”
Rupert and Miss Anderson start arguing, and the other man finally interrupts. “Quiet! Both of you. Rupert, grab the trunk. Miss Anderson, would you be so kind as to assist me in a visit to the Johnson homestead? The mayor believes Mr. Johnson has been organizing demonstrations in opposition to his run for Senate, and I find that midnight visits elicit the most reliable results.”