Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(61)

I bring the sword up and through her throat, hard and fast. The blade does the job, her body falling on the shambler side of the wall, her head tumbling the other way.

Bill is frozen, and so I climb down the wall, grabbing what handholds I can but mostly sliding. It takes a good while, and my temper is hot as I make my way, sword in hand. The dark cloud has settled over my thoughts once again, and I’m only half-aware of what I do.

I march up to Bill where he stands, wide-eyed. His joints finally loose and he tries to point the rifle at me, barrel shaking. I knock it to the side in one motion. He’s all out of shots, anyway.

I point the sword at him, the rusty tip only a few inches away from his nose, the blade dripping the poor girl’s lifeblood in the space between us. I’m sad and angry and a whole host of other feelings, but mostly I’m fighting very hard not to kill Bill.

“You just murdered an innocent girl, you cowardly bastard. All you had to do was check their arms! How hard is that?”

Bill just stares at me.

“Say something, you sad sack of manure! Give me a reason not to take your head off.”

Bill says nothing. He looks away, shaking. I want so much to end him here, to vent my anger and frustration and fear in a single swing of a rusty cavalry sword.

But I don’t.

I take a deep breath and wipe the blood off on Bill’s shoulder before I prop it on my own. If I kill him, I have no doubt that the sheriff will execute me while that no good pastor and most of the town looks on in judgment, and I ain’t fixing to die just yet.

“If you point a gun at me, you’d better use it, because next time I might not remember that a lady doesn’t go around lopping the heads off of random folks, you goddamn yellow-bellied jackass.”

I turn and walk back to the wall, climbing it easily this time. A few feet away Alfonse stands, openmouthed, waiting for me. I give him a long look. “Don’t. Say. A. Word.”

He nods and we pick back up where we left off, walking up and down our portion of the wall. The moans of the shamblers seem farther away now, like they’ve lost interest now that fresh meat isn’t in the immediate vicinity. Inside, my thoughts churn. This can’t be the first time Bill has shot an innocent person out of fear. Do we truly mean so little around here? I laugh mirthlessly at the obviousness of the answer. Maisie, and the other girl, the one I didn’t know . . . it wasn’t an accident that she ended up in a field full of shamblers. Maisie was always top-notch when I knew her; there’s no way she got bit during a routine patrol. So how did she turn?

I ain’t sure I want to know.

As I walk the wall for the remainder of the day, one thing becomes clear. There is no such thing as the good life in Summerland for Negroes. The only thing here for us is death.

Whatever form that might take.





I’m sending along some money for a new dress. The tobacco this year did very well, as did the tomatoes. Of course the tobacco fetched a far better price. It’s amazing that even in the twilight of the Apocalypse people are willing to pay a premium for their vices. I’m thinking of buying the Parkers’ old homestead and using the fields for additional corn for the whiskey, since our small distillery has become quite popular. One of the field hands, a big man named Kingston, says he knows a thing or two about running a still, and I think he might be able to take on the additional work, since our own still is so very small. I feel this would be an excellent way to ensure Rose Hill’s financial stability. I will not have you return to a hovel.





Chapter 24


In Which Some Time Passes and I Grow Restless


Every day is just like that first day. We run out to some place along the wall, grab breakfast, run some more, the rotations decided upon by the sheriff and his men. Once there, the fence team checks out the interior fences, while the patrols walk the wall, watching the shamblers boil and froth beneath us. I get the feeling there are other groups of boys and girls doing this same task at different times of the day, but the sheriff is careful to keep us separated, and I only see the twenty or so girls and boys who make up my group. I ain’t paired with Alphonse for every patrol, and the ever-changing roster of partners is mind-numbing.

Sometimes I walk the wall with Ida, who tries her damnedest to draw me into conversation, to no avail. Sometimes I walk with one of the other girls or one of the boys. Our job is simple: walk along the wall, make sure the shamblers don’t get too intrepid and climb over. The rotting remains of dozens of shamblers line the lee side of the wall, including the ones I put down my first day, and no matter how much time I spend on the berm I never get used to the smell. It is a foul task the sheriff has set us to, and I ain’t sure why we ain’t allowed to harvest the whole lot of them.

The only possible joy in my life now is putting down shamblers, but I am denied even that bit of relief except in the rare case where a shambler decides to test out the wall. It quickly becomes clear that the idea of a single shambler climbing the spare handholds and making it to the top is a ridiculous one, but we’re still permitted to swing down and harvest any that tries, for which I’m thankful.

I keep my sword, and Alfonse must say something to the rest of the patrol team about what happened on the first day, because no one makes a move to snatch it from the shed where we put our tools at the end of the day. No matter how long I take to get into the weapons shed, the sword is always right there where I left it. I manage to make it passable-sharp as I walk the wall, using a decent rock and a lot of spit. It still needs oil, and it’s nowhere as good as my sickles back home, but it’s better than anything else, and I’m glad for it.