Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(72)
He rests a hand on my shoulder, patting it affectionately, and his touch nauseates me. “This punishment will be brutal, my dear, but your mortal flesh will bear it, because it must. Take comfort that in reaffirming His order we give Him thanks.”
He backs away and coughs, the sound wet and phlegmy. “Trust in the Lord and He will guide you through this hardship.”
From behind me comes the sound of footsteps and murmurs. I try to twist and see who it is, but I cannot turn that far around.
Under my shirt, my penny has gone to ice.
“Oh, don’t worry, girly. You’re gonna have quite the audience,” Bill says, back from rousing the patrols. “The sheriff is a fair man, but he knows an instigator when he sees one. No different than dogs, really. And every now and then you just get a bad dog. Maybe it’s poor breeding, maybe it’s poor training. Only thing you can do is punish him and hope he learns who his master is. And if not, well . . . sometimes you’ve just got to put a bad dog down.”
His footsteps echo on the wooden boards of the walkway as they move away from me, and I test my bonds to see if there’s any way to wriggle free. Panic digs its broken fingernails into my soul.
I remember the day I’d asked Auntie Aggie what it was like back before the shamblers walked, back before the war. “It was bad then, Janie. A different kind of bad, but bad all the same. I once saw a man whipped to death for stealing a loaf of bread from the mistress’s kitchen. Not your momma, mind you, but the missus that came before her. Overseer took the skin clean off of him till there wasn’t nothing but meat left. So don’t let nobody tell you any different about the old days. Life is hard now, nothing but suffering, but some kinds of suffering is easier to bear than others.”
I’d never asked her again about the bad old days, but now, with my hands secured to the whipping post, I wish I had.
Behind me the sounds of footfalls and murmuring rises, and this time when I crane my neck around I get a glimpse of the crowd, gathering in the first bit of sunlight. Right now it’s mostly Negroes, a few drovers mixed in here and there. I don’t recognize many of the faces and I figure it must be the night crews. I stop straining against the bonds securing my hands, since there ain’t no use to it and all I’m doing is giving myself a fine rope burn.
After what feels like hours but is actually only a few minutes someone exclaims, “Jane, what are you doing?” I twist as far as I can. Behind me Ida stares with wide eyes. “I told you not to get caught!” Her voice carries all the fear and panic eating at my middle, and I squeeze my eyes shut like I can somehow hide from what comes next.
But I can’t.
I’ve never been scared of death. Everyone dies, and I don’t like wasting energy fretting about certitudes, but Aunt Aggie’s words keep echoing through my brain: whipped to death, took the skin clean off. The fear is so powerful that I can’t do anything but stare straight ahead, gaze locked on the wooden post in front of me.
Behind me someone clears his throat. “Listen up, y’all. The sheriff has a few words to say.”
Boots echo on the boardwalk in front of me, stopping just a little off to the side. I look up, and the sheriff squints down at me. His expression is blank, but there’s a glint of something in his eye. Satisfaction? I turn my gaze back to the wood post in front of me.
“Summerland is a place of laws and order, and I am the long arm of that law. Our goal here is not the glorification of the individual but to create a harmonious community that can serve as a model to the chaos of those cities in the east. Just as the Israelites left Egypt for the promise of a better life, so have all of you. But for that harmony to be achieved, each of us must know his place. You don’t let a dog pretend to be a horse, and the same it must be with our dark cousins. There is a natural order to things, as the pastor tells us, and when that order is not obeyed, disaster rides hard on its heels.”
There’s no comment from the crowd, no murmur of dissent, no valiant objections on my behalf. The only sound is of someone coughing far off. I know that if I’m going to say anything, this might be my last chance. People deserve to know about the danger festering underground. “You have to listen to me! Back in town, these men have built a—”
A crack comes across my jaw, hard enough to shake my brain something terrible, and Bill steps back, shaking his hand and cursing. Blood fills my mouth, and I fall silent. It’s no use. The sheriff continues.
“This darkie broke curfew. That transgression calls for a minimum of twenty lashes. It gives me no pleasure to hand down this punishment, but hand it down I will.”
I half expect him to start praying, but thankfully I am spared that blasphemy. Someone, likely Bill again, steps close to me, and I jerk in surprise as the back of my shirt is grabbed. There’s a tearing sound, and then a gasp as my garment is torn in half. I roll my shoulders forward, suddenly modest. The air is warm on my bare back, and my breath comes in short pants, my embarrassment almost overriding my fear.
“What’s this?” Bill asks, leaning close. He reaches down the front of my shirt, and I jerk away from him, fearful that he’s reaching for my bosoms. Instead his hand comes up with my penny. He yanks the cord hard enough to break the leather thong. “Don’t think you’ll be needing this,” he says, his breath hot and rank on my cheek.
The sheriff steps down from the boardwalk into the hard-packed dirt of the street, standing behind me. I can almost see him slowly uncoiling the whip at his side, relishing the drama and anxiety of the crowd.