Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(45)
“You have horses?” I squeak. I’ve never seen a horse, apart from paintings of them. Great beasts that people once rode, before the shamblers made them a ready food source. The iron ponies replaced horses as transportation, and I’d love nothing more than to see a horse up close.
Momma used to talk about her favorite horse, Cassandra, named after some doomed woman from ancient myth. Apparently the name was prophetic: the first time Rose Hill was hit with a wave of shamblers they went after the horses, tearing into the poor beasts before Momma and Josiah, the big dark man who led the field work, could put them down. It was a small group, and we were lucky. It gave us enough warning to prepare for future attacks. Most of Rose Hill’s neighbors weren’t so fortunate.
Next to me Katherine sighs. “I’d love to see a horse.”
I nod. “Me too.”
Mr. Redfern gives us a bit of side-eye. “Well, you’ll get your wish. They ride horses along the perimeter fence. I don’t know what the sheriff has planned for you, but it will probably include some patrols. There aren’t nearly enough bodies to fill them properly.” There’s something behind his expression that tells me there is more to his words than he’s letting on, but I leave it alone for now.
We stop short outside of a building with a large, fancy hand-lettered glass window proclaiming “Sheriff” and a flag of red and white stripes. Survivalists.
Mr. Redfern holds the door open for us, and Katherine and I file into a plain-looking office. “Good luck,” he says under his voice before falling in behind us. What he means by that, I can’t know, but his tone is earnest.
Even with the large front window, the room is gloomy. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust, and when they do the vague shapes form into a desk, some chairs, and a cell along the back wall that is currently occupied by Jackson. The whole place carries the smell of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke with a faint air of decay.
The walls are bare wood, with notices breaking up the empty space: a large sign proclaiming “No Drinking After Eight”; a weekly prayer-meeting schedule; two sets of town laws, one for coloreds and another for whites; and, most curious of all, a long document labeled “The Summerland Bill of Rights” posted right next to the door.
“These the girls the mayor wired me about?”
Katherine and I halt at the deep voice, and a loud thump follows, the sound of boots hitting the wide plank floor. I’m half wondering where they got all of this wood from. I ain’t seen a single tree around here, just that golden grass and flat landscape. Did the mayor bring all this building material west on the train? No wonder he was carrying on about investors.
Behind us Mr. Redfern clears his throat. “Yes, Sheriff. Jane McKeene and Katherine Deveraux, both recent graduates of Miss Preston’s School of Combat for Negro Girls.”
“That’ll be all, redskin. Tell Bob and William they need to come back to escort these two after I’m done talking with them.”
“Of course.” Mr. Redfern’s voice is tight, but a glance over my shoulder reveals nothing, his face impassive. I know he has to be hot over being called “redskin” like that, which is an insult in the highest degree. After all, his skin isn’t even red. But, his expression is mild. I sure wouldn’t want to play poker with Mr. Redfern.
The door opens and closes as Mr. Redfern departs, and I turn my attention to the sheriff. The white man who stands before us has the reddened skin of someone who has spent many long days in the shadeless sun of these plains. He wears a wide brim hat even though we’re indoors, and I figure that a place as lawless as this probably ain’t got much use for manners. His sandy mustache droops on either side of his mouth, and despite his relative youth, his movements as he sits are slow and deliberate. I suppose he would be considered attractive, yet there’s something I don’t like about him. There’s a spark in his blue eyes that makes me think the man is more dangerous than he looks, the way they say gators in the swamps down South pretend to be logs before taking a bite out of a man. This is a man who likes to be underestimated.
“Jane McKeene. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Well, sir, I don’t see how that could be. I’m nobody.”
“A nobody who makes the front page of the Sun.” The man reaches back on his desk and grabs a newssheet. It’s the paper from nearly a month ago. The date puts it the day after the lecture and the headline reads MAYOR AND THE MISSUS SAVED BY NEGRO GIRL’S DERRING-DO. The illustration that accompanies the story is a crudely drawn version of me, my hair sticking up in twenty different directions, my lips thick and my eyes wild as I gun down no fewer than ten shamblers.
“Sheriff Snyder, I must confess, this is the first time I’ve seen such a headline. Might I borrow your newssheet to peruse the story at my leisure?”
An expression I can’t identify crosses his face. “You read?”
There’s a sudden tension in the room, and I hunch my shoulders and shuffle a bit, letting a slow drawl enter my voice. I prefer to be misjudged as well. “No, suh,” I say, my words slow and deliberate. “I jes like to look at the pictures, if’n that’s okay.”
The sheriff hands me the newspaper with a grunt before leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms, and I tuck the paper into the top of my boot while the man talks. “So, the ground rules. Curfew at eight each night unless you’re assigned to a patrol. You will be responsible for the protection of this town. Scythe, sickle, knife, club, you want it, you got it. But no guns. We don’t let the darkies carry ’em, only my boys. I used to run patrols back in Georgia before the war, and I know how crafty you people can be.” The sheriff’s voice goes hard, and I swallow.