Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(60)
The dead girl reaching for my throat is Maisie Carpenter.
Maisie was in her last year when I got to Miss Preston’s. The last time I saw her was the night of Professor Ghering’s lecture, when she stood along the wall, nodding in agreement as I protested using that poor man in that professor’s ill-conceived experiment. And now, here she is.
My penny goes cold, and the sensation is enough to snap me out of my poorly timed ruminations. I grunt and yank the blades the rest of the way through Maisie’s neck. It’s not as efficient as a swing, but with the rusty blades it’s the best I can do. Still, it takes entirely too much effort. In the time I’ve taken down two shamblers, I could normally have taken down five or six.
One of the other girls finally gets her scythe up and swings it at a shambler’s neck. The thing goes to the ground; it’s another girl dressed like an Attendant. I recognize this one as well. It’s the girl that ran off, leaving Mayor Carr’s wife to her fate.
Looks like I found the answer to what happened to the girls assigned to the fine ladies of Baltimore. I file the fact away for later, another piece of a puzzle I ain’t sure I understand or even want to parse.
I rest my hands on my knees and breathe deeply as the antique shamblers amble close enough to be a threat. I have to take care of them quickly, before any others show up to see what’s going on. After all, we still have a wall to climb. The other two girls stand a few feet behind me, their expressions dazed and more than a little shocked.
“Go on, get back up. I’ll take care of these.” I don’t have to tell them twice. They run toward the wall, trying to find the handholds that’ll allow them to climb to the top. That’s the problem with walls: they don’t just keep the enemy out.
The remaining shamblers are practically ancient, wearing uniforms from the war, and it takes very little effort to separate their heads from their bodies. They’re all extremely decayed, a few of them missing arms. One has a cavalry sword hanging from his belt, and after I put him down I unsheathe the sword and test its weight. It’s a real sword, not a decoration like the major used back at Rose Hill. I ain’t partial to swords—the time on the reverse is too long if you miscalculate your swing—but it’s better than a couple of rusty gardening blades.
I use the sword to put down the rest of the decrepit pack. The euphoria, that light-headed feeling I get after every battle, is stronger than ever, most likely because this is the first time in a very, very long time where I could have died. Another few seconds removing poor Maisie’s head, another couple of shamblers, and I could be lumbering and dragging along just like them.
After the last of the old dead has been dispatched, I wipe the sword off on the nearest body. I toss the sword onto the top of the wall and locate a couple of possible handholds before backing up a few steps to get a running start. I run and jump, my hand digging into the uneven spots in the wall. I haul myself up to the top, groaning from the effort, kicking and scrabbling in a downright ungainly manner. But I’ve managed to clear the wall, and that’s a feat in and of itself.
A crawling sensation tickles across my skin as I stand. That’s when I see Bill, below me on the inside of the wall, his rifle trained on me. Next to me, the girls have their hands up in the air. “Put ’em up!” Bill says.
I raise my arms over my head, sword at my feet. To the right of me the other two girls raise their arms a little higher, hands shaking. Their eyes are wide, and they’re clearly terrified.
Bill stares at us for a long time. He’s sweaty and unsettled, like maybe lunch didn’t agree with him. “Sir, what seems to be the problem?” I ask, keeping my voice calm.
“You got bit,” he says, moving the rifle from one of us to the next.
I look at the other girls, one of whom has started crying quietly. Bill didn’t even bother to climb the wall, there’s no way he can know what went on right below it. I turn back to Bill. “No sir, none of us got bit. Sure, took us a bit longer to put down the shamblers than it should’ve on account of the poor quality of weapons we’re given, but we are all safe and sound.”
Bill turns the gun on me, then the girl next to me, then finally the one on the end. “No, you ain’t. Them shamblers bit you. Ain’t no way you’re coming off that wall!”
By this point Bill is yelling and gesturing, spittle flying, and I’m a little shocked at how he’s gone from spiteful bully to raving lunatic. I glance at the girls, to see if either of them was in fact bit, when thunder splits the humid air, warm fluid spattering my face. I turn to Bill, whose eyes are wide and surprised, and then back to the girls. The one closest to me is flat on her back, most of her jaw missing, eyes wide and staring.
A deep sadness rips through me, followed quickly by anger. I didn’t even know her name.
I whip back to Bill, who is now frantically chambering his next bullet. My anger loosens my tongue, and I drop my arms and bend down to grab my sword, gesturing at Bill with it. “What the hell is the matter with you? All you had to do was look at her arm! What kind of bastard just goes around shooting people?”
But Bill can’t or doesn’t hear me. He lets out a frightened squeal as his eyes go wide, staring at the girl on the end. She’s dropped her head and she’s starting to shake, the full body shudder of someone turning. A low growl comes from her throat, and Bill hastily raises his rifle. The shot goes wide, but it gets the girl’s attention, and her head snaps down, yellow eyes locked on Bill.