Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(70)
“Yes, they are. I use that tunnel to get back and forth from town. It’s actually a more direct route than the road. It also helps me hide my movements from the sheriff.” There’s a metal gate separating the hallway from the lab, and Mr. Gideon unlocks it with a key around his neck. He holds the gate open until I pass through, and then secures it behind me. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, and I suddenly feel very nervous being alone with him. It ain’t just that it’s improper, which it is, but the last time I was alone with a boy was Jackson back in the day, and despite my fearsome predicament a wave of loneliness overwhelms me.
I miss my momma and Auntie Aggie, and Big Sue back in Baltimore. I miss Jackson and his stupid plans and little Ruthie and her nothing-but-fluff braids. I miss Miss Duncan and her make-your-arms-mush scythe drills. I even miss Katherine, which I never thought I’d be saying.
Mostly, I miss being hopeful. There ain’t a lick of hope in Summerland from what I can see, despite the advertising, and the drudgery of it all is enough to make a girl just lay down and die.
I collapse on a long bench before a table a good distance away from the lab equipment. Mr. Gideon goes to a cabinet and removes a jar, returning to the table and sitting on the matching bench on the other side.
“Here. I’m afraid I don’t have a fork, but at least they’re tasty. My mother sends them along, since we haven’t gotten around to planting trees yet out here.” Mr. Gideon slides a jar of peaches across the table at me, and I pick up the Ball jar and twist off the two-piece lid. The scent of the peaches hits me, and I dig in with my fingers, pulling out a peach slice and shoving it in my mouth. It’s sweet and juicy, and I’ve eaten half the jar before I remember my manners enough to offer Mr. Gideon some.
He waves me away with a smile. “I’m good, thank you. Our rations haven’t been cut like yours have.”
I think about Ida, back up in the bedroom, and I refasten the lid, saving the other half of the jar for her. She’s been kinder to me than anyone else here, mostly keeping me out of trouble, and it’s the least I can do for her.
“So,” I say, once I’ve wiped my fingers on the front of my raggedy shirt, “tell me about them shamblers you’re keeping in that cage.”
Mr. Gideon sighs heavily and sits down. “Well, first of all, this wasn’t of my making. I had an idea, and the result is a gross perversion of it.”
“So what was your idea, then?”
“Technology! Innovation! A modernized state in which all Americans—Negroes, whites, Indians—could live together.” He jumps to his feet and begins pacing. “Summerland was supposed to be a shining beacon of hope, a noble Egalitarian vision for the future, a place to carve out a new idea of what our country could become, risen from the ashes of oppression and death.” He waves his hands around before running them through his hair, and there’s something about watching a man talk with that much passion that makes me sit up and take notice.
“Electricity was at the heart of my vision,” he continued. “It would keep the town safe, and perform labor. Electrified fences. Electrical appliances to wash clothing, to cook food. The war ended slavery; electricity could lay the foundation for an automated settlement where we could continue the march toward a fair and equal society. I worked for a time with Mr. Edison in his compound in Menlo Park; when I returned home to Baltimore, I told my father about my ideas and he got the notion of me going west to improve some of the frontier towns. He convinced me to discuss the plan with a small group of his political allies. I needed financing, and it was my hope that they might see the potential in the idea. They did, and my father took steps to put it in action. But when I arrived here, it was nothing like what I had laid out.” He finally stopped pacing and sat down. “My idea was to locate a town near a natural resource to run the generators: a river, a stream, coal veins. This area has no viable power source, but they had already established the foundations of the settlement, with dozens of people living here.”
I think back to the night of Mayor Carr’s dinner party—the electric lights on his house, the newspaperman who was mysteriously bitten. “Hence, that contraption I just saw back there.”
Mr. Gideon sits next to me on the bench and pulls a piece of paper and some charcoal toward him. He sketches out a drawing. “It’s a simple Faraday machine. The wheel turns, making the magnets shift, and causes power to flow down the wires. In an effort to keep the town from collapsing, I retrofit the generator to run on physical labor. The undead never tire; they don’t need much in the way of sustenance to maintain locomotion, they need only be replaced every once in a while . . .” He grimaces as I give him a look. “I’ll admit it’s not one of my best ideas. It runs the lights, and that’s about all, to be honest. The idea was to have the electricity power a barrier fence, much more deadly and effective than bobbed wire or even the brick wall. Something that would last much longer, and keep undead out of a large area. But the single generator could never power a viable perimeter fence, if we even had the manpower to finish building one. So, there are electric lights, and a wall to keep the deathless out. The town looks pretty, but in the meantime, we have the same society we did back east, one that subjugates and kills more than half its population to guard the smaller portion. What is the point of that? How is this progress?”
I know why the tinkerer is frustrated, but I don’t have an answer to his question, and just shake my head.