Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(56)
The preacher closes his eyes and puts his hand over his heart. “And because he questioned, the Sinner’s Plague found him one day as he plowed his field. The problem with John—the problem with all nonbelievers—is they think they understand God’s plan. They think God sent His son to earth to die for our sins because, down past the roots, we are all sprung from the same seed. But that isn’t so! The Lord God Himself desires, above all things, order. An understanding of where we all fit in His church, this earth. The senseless tragedy that was the War between the States disrupted the order God had given to us, by His grace. For failing to understand this law, fundamental to His love, He has unleashed His wrath upon us. It was hubris to think we are all equal in His eyes, friends. Not in this world. But perhaps, later, in the Lord’s kingdom.” At that last bit he turns and gestures at us sitting in the back, as though the meaning in his words wasn’t clear enough. A few of the white folks, both the whores and the drovers, turn to look at us. I sink down a little lower in my chair, feeling very, very exposed.
The preacher smiles, as though he knows exactly the effect of his words, and continues. “But there is hope. You can cast off the sins of your past, and you can cleanse yourself of the Curse of Ham. You can toil and labor for the good of those God has made in His image, and thereby find peace and contentment. Because that is the dream of America, and it is God’s will; to work hard in the role God has provided for us, to be deserving of good fortune, and to prosper.”
Most of the white folks in the room are nodding and giving praise. I glance around the Negro tables and realize a few of those folks are as well. That makes me sad and scared.
The preacher clears his throat, and shakes himself a little, as though casting aside the somber feeling in the room. He smiles widely at us, his eyes shining in the low light. The penny around my neck is frigid. That man, that false prophet, might just be the most dangerous man in town.
“Now,” the preacher says, his smile unfaltering, “Let us pray.”
We’ve lost quite a few of our folks over the past few weeks, not just to shambler attacks but also to a group of men calling themselves Survivalists. They’ve been riding through the countryside stirring up no end of trouble. Too many of them are of the rough sort that used to run in the old slave patrols, riding down escapees for a few coins. If you should find yourself in the path of any of these men, run in the opposite direction. There is nothing to be gained from their acquaintance, and I fear for the Negro should these men ever come to any real power.
Chapter 22
In Which I Learn a Tune I Don’t Care For
The next morning, we are woken early, shaken awake by someone’s meaty fist. “Time to go,” the big girl says before walking away.
“Well, good morning to you, too,” I mutter, climbing out of my nest of blankets. I scratch at my arm as I stand. I’m pretty sure that my makeshift bed has fleas, if the creepy-crawly sensation over my skin is any indication. Ida gets up and looks at me as I scratch my arm.
“You’re going to need to launder them blankets,” she says, pointing to my arm.
“Yeah, maybe I can get one of the Duchess’s girls to do it?” I hate doing laundry, and a few pennies seems like a fair price for dealing with flea-infested blankets.
Last night, after nearly two hours of listening to the preacher, I walked back to the sleeping spot with Ida. She helped me find blankets in the pile in the corner, telling me that “when a girl passes we just throw her blankets here for the next one,” before showing me where to sleep. There are no beds, just blankets on the floor, everyone squished in tight as sardines. I thought Miss Preston’s was bad, but now I long for the days of hard cots and meals served with cutlery.
The rest of the girls are pulling on their boots and heading out the door, so I hurriedly do the same. I barely have time to spare a thought for Katherine. Did she wake up in a feather bed, toast and coffee served on a silver service? Wherever she got to, it has to be better than this.
The sound of many boots on the back stairs rolls like thunder, and as we exit the saloon a couple of bleary-eyed cowpokes leaning against the back of the building raise their heads and curse us out. No one I’m with says anything, so I stay silent, too.
Once we’re out on the street we fall into two lines. The boys are pouring around the back of the general store. They must have a room up above it, like we girls do at the Duchess’s. No one in our group looks to be much older than twenty, and I wonder if everyone here is like Ida, someone rounded up from one of the patrol schools and sent out here.
I crane my neck to see if Jackson is amongst the boys, but I don’t find his ocher skin anywhere. A midnight-skinned boy, tall and rangy, catches my eye and gives me a wink, but I look away before he can get the wrong idea.
The sheriff comes down the street atop a large, ill-tempered-looking beast. I elbow the person next to me, a small girl from Georgia who Ida introduced as Sofi.
“Is that a . . . ?”
Sofi looks at me from the corner of her eye. “A horse? You for real? Ain’t you never seen a horse before?”
I shake my head, and I wonder what kinds of places in the Lost States have horses amongst so many shamblers. The animal is big and the color of cinnamon, with a long nose and a tail of straight hair. There’s more hair along the thing’s elongated neck, and its hoofed feet make a hollow clip-clopping sound in the packed dirt as it walks down the road toward us.