Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(69)
There ain’t enough light to see properly, but I make my way, hands grazing the walls on either side of me to keep steady. The stairs ain’t dirt like in Mr. Gideon’s laboratory, they’re wood, but everything else reminds me of my first day here. There ain’t no electric lights, just good old kerosene lanterns set into a nook here and there, and I grab one to make my passage easier. At this point my fear of getting caught is a faraway thing, I’m more keen on solving the mystery of the angry townsfolk than anything else.
The stairs empty into a narrow hallway, and the scent of something powerful rotten hits me. I bury my face in the crook of my arm, the stink of me preferable to the stink of whatever’s down here. I’m dog-tired and still too hungry to think straight, so it takes me a long moment before I realize exactly what it is I’m smelling, and the moment I do, that’s when I hear the noises.
Shamblers.
I follow the scent of the dead, the sounds of the moans getting louder, and move cautiously down the tunnel. It ends in a large antechamber, nearly the size of a concert hall. I ain’t sure who or what dug out such a large space, but it must’ve been a pretty impressive undertaking. The ceiling extends far above my head, the light cast down by a cluster of those same electric lamps, conspicuous in their constant glow. But I ain’t nearly half as distracted by the lights as I am the sight that meets my eyes.
Before me is a giant, rolling shambler cage. And in the cage: at least fifty shamblers, running toward an old Negro man sitting in a chair, dozing, the shamblers turning the cage like a giant, metal wheel.
I ain’t even got time for my normal fear response to rise up. I just watch the shamblers turning the entire mess in a circle, my brain trying to make sense of it all. I’ve heard lots of people suppose that shamblers could be useful for labor and such. I read the story of a man who hitched his plow to a team of shamblers and tried to use them to till his field. The problem was that they took off after his boy, catching the kid and eating him and a good part of the rest of his family, before the entire clan set out for the local municipality and turned most of them as well. This was the problem with shamblers: one little slip and everyone you knew was a ravenous monster. It didn’t make much sense to do anything but put them down.
“Isn’t it terrifying?”
I startle at the voice, the fear I couldn’t feel at the sight of the shamblers finally making my heart jump painfully. Mr. Gideon walks out of the shadows, wiping his spectacles on a corner of his untucked shirt. He’s unshaven, and the scruff of beard shadowing his cheeks makes him look tired and just a bit dangerous. It’s an appealing look in a man. But I squash those soft feelings like bugs. I still ain’t got the full measure of him, and if he thinks he’s going to try something I need to be ready for it.
“Relax, Miss McKeene. I’m not the one you need to fear.”
“Funny how the ones that turn on you always say something like that.”
A smile ghosts across his lips before disappearing. “True enough. Here, let me show you how this works.”
“What makes you think I care?”
He laughs a little. “You’re smart. Your brain has been putting facts together since you got here, whether you realize it or not. And since you’re here, you might as well learn every single last one of this town’s terrible secrets.”
He’s right. A strong curiosity has always been one of my flaws. I nod, and my stomach chooses that moment to rumble loudly. My face heats and Mr. Gideon’s eyes soften. “I do believe I may have some canned peaches somewhere down here as well. Follow me.”
He walks toward the back of the room, past the giant shambler wheel. The dead in the cage stop walking for a moment, their yellow eyes fixating on us instead. But the cage has enough momentum that the few who are distracted lose their balance and fall down, their compatriots trampling them as the whole contraption keeps turning. One of the shamblers gets caught underfoot the wrong way, and its head is crushed by the others. It doesn’t move after that, the body flopping at the bottom of the wheel while the whole thing keeps turning. I’m sure it’s all some kind of metaphor, but I’m too tired and hungry to figure out what for. The rest of the fallen shamblers eventually regain their footing, and they all turn their attention back to the old man sleeping in the chair.
I follow Mr. Gideon down another hallway for quite some time, the sound of our breathing loud in the enclosed space. This hallway is lit by electric lights, and I take the time to watch Mr. Gideon. He walks stiffly, but his limp is gone.
“What happened to your limp? Was it an affectation, or the real thing?”
Mr. Gideon laughs. “You don’t mince words much, do you?”
“I find that my lot in life has less to do with what I say than who I am,” I answer.
He nods and looses a long sigh. “I can see how that would be true. Well, I have a mechanical brace for my leg. It helps me walk, but it’s tiresome, so I don’t wear it all of the time. Plus, the limp makes the sheriff think I’m weak, and to speak truthfully, I prefer him underestimating me.”
“You don’t like him much, either, huh?”
“The man is a monster. And that apple didn’t tumble far from the tree.” I’m surprised by the vehemence in his voice. We fall silent after that.
The hallway eventually ends, and I’m surprised to find us back in Mr. Gideon’s lab. “These tunnels are one giant rabbit warren,” I murmur.