Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(3)
“Me, go to that university lecture?” I snort and shake my head. “I ain’t about that. What do I care what some trumped-up rich white man thinks about how the dead rose up? He probably ain’t never even seen them out there shambling about. You know how it works. He lives his life sheltered away behind the walls of the city while us poor Negroes go out and kill the dead.”
“Jane McKeene!”
Katherine (never Kate) Deveraux stands before us, blocking the way to the armory, arms crossed over her generous chest. She is one of those girls that makes you question the school’s admissions criteria. With her light skin, golden curls, and blue eyes I wonder how it was she ended up in a Negro school in the first place. Katherine is passing light; a body likely wouldn’t even know that she was colored unless someone told them. She’s the prettiest girl at Miss Preston’s, and I figure that’s as good a reason as any to hate her.
Not that she ain’t good with a weapon. She is a crack shot with a rifle, invaluable in a long-range capacity. But she is also from Virginia, and I ain’t had much cause to like Virginians. Partly because most of them are Baptists and Momma ain’t too keen on Baptists, being a staunch Presbyterian and all. But mainly it’s the way they’re so damned self-important, like they’d single-handedly stopped the dead at the Mason-Dixon Line or some nonsense. It is downright ridiculous.
Katherine and I have been butting heads since I showed up at Miss Preston’s School of Combat, and not just on account of her being so offensively pretty. She is one of those girls that doesn’t know when to mind her own business, and she’s a know-it-all that could try the patience of Jesus Christ himself. I ain’t a very good Christian, so you know where that leaves me.
“How dare you slander Professor Ghering!” Katherine continues, now that she has my attention. “He is an expert on all scientific matters pertaining to the deathless. Why, the man even traveled to Europe and Asia researching the undead. What would you know of the realm of academics?”
“First off, they ain’t deathless—they’re dead. That’s it. Just because they happen to run around terrorizing the countryside doesn’t make them anything but the walking corpses they are. Anyone who says otherwise is a fool and wouldn’t know a shambler if it held him down and bit him, including this professor character. Second, I’d be much obliged if you would keep my name out your mouth. The last thing I want is you sullying it with your silliness.” I make to push past her, my scythe still an awkward weight in my hands, but she blocks me once again.
Big Sue frowns down at me and Katherine, her dark brow furrowing. “What’s it matter? If he’s wrong, then he’s wrong. All this arguing is a waste of time, especially since you’re gonna make me late for supper.” She shoulders past Katherine, who puts her hands on her hips and huffs a little.
“Professor Ghering is a brilliant man. Miss Anderson says the papers say he’s going to cure the undead plague! The two of you should attend his lecture. Homespun wisdom can only get you so far.”
I snort. Ever since Baltimore and a handful of the other major cities were certified shambler-free more than a year ago, the government has turned its attention to finding a cure. You ask me, that’s a luxury we ain’t earned yet. I’ve tangled with enough shamblers to know there ain’t no such thing as “shambler-free” while just one of those drooling corpses is still walking about.
But according to the “experts” there haven’t been any major attacks within the city limits—or even in the county at large—since before the last Rising Day, and I’ve heard enough political speeches to know that letting rich white city folk think that we’ve made even a small part of America safe again is a better stump speech than telling them that we’re still in trouble five years after the Army stopped fighting the dead. Especially when the current political party has been in charge that whole time.
But I don’t say another word to Katherine, just walk past her into the armory. All the girls at Miss Preston’s have their own weapons locker, and I am no exception. I place my scythe into the bracket set into the wall specifically for it. Next to it are my sickles, the blades as curved and sharp as Miss Anderson’s tongue. Beside them are my batons, short wooden clubs with a metal spike in the weighted end and a leather thong at the bottom, a last resort in the case of a melee. The crown jewel of my collection is the well-oiled Remington single-action, the close-range gun of choice for Miss Preston’s girls. I love that six-shooter. According to the newspapers, the Remington single-action is the gunslinger’s pistol of choice, which makes it even more ace.
There is also a rifle near the bottom that’s seen better days, a relic from the War of Northern Aggression and damn near useless. I hate that rifle with a passion, all because it is hands down my worst weapon.
When I come out of the armory, Big Sue and Katherine are gone but Miss Preston’s girl, Ruthie, is waiting for me. “Jane! Miss Preston says you need to come and see her right away.”
I take a deep breath and let it out, praying to Jesus for patience. Ruthie is just a little thing, with big eyes, dark, velvety skin, and braids that are more fluff than braid. I don’t want to take my frustration out on her. Ain’t her fault that it’s pork chop night and I missed lunch because I was taking remedial etiquette training with Miss Anderson. And the remedial training is probably why Miss Preston wants to see me, anyway, so it ain’t like I’m in any hurry to get to the firing line.