Dread Nation (Dread Nation #1)(99)

I rack the shotgun and turn it on the sheriff, who now points his revolver at Katherine’s temple. Her defiant look changes to one of naked fear, and I swear to myself. I’d thought she was planning her own maneuver, but since she still has a gun pointed at her head, maybe not.

“Looks like we got ourselves a bit of a Confederate standoff,” I say, ignoring the voice inside that urges me to hurry.

The sheriff gives me an evil smile. “If you don’t want me to paint the wall with her brains, you’ll put the shotgun down right now.”

“Just shoot the pickaninny!” the pastor yells, lurching to his feet. Spittle flies from his mouth, and the distraction is just what I need to end this whole mess.

Katherine must think so as well. She goes limp in the sheriff’s arms, dragging him off-balance. Sheriff Snyder stumbles forward so I pull the trigger.

As does the sheriff.

The sheriff flies back, but I am frozen in time and space. All of the ruckus outside disappears, and there is only a rushing sound in my ears. I am certain that my recklessness has just killed Katherine.

But then she quickly scrambles to her feet, scooping up Bill’s fallen rifle as she crosses the room to stand next to me. A heavy relief nearly weighs me down; the sheriff’s shot went wide.

Katherine turns around and looks behind her. Blood spatters the side of her dress. “You shot the sheriff.”

“That I did.”

“You tore apart his throat,” she says, voice flat, and I think she might actually be in a bit of a battle haze.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better I was aiming for his face,” I say. I’m still reeling from thinking I’d murdered Katherine and the overwhelming joy I now feel. The last time I felt this way was when Jackson came traipsing through the door. “Miss Folsom was right. An inch really does make a heap of a difference.”

“She was talking about long range with a rifle, Jane.”

I shrug. “Whatever.”

Katherine stares at me, and I give her a small smile. “You just killed a man, and you’re smiling?” she says.

“Well, he wasn’t a very good person. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Katherine looks back at the sheriff’s dead body, lifting one of her fair hands to her cheek, which is dotted with bits of the dead man. “I worry about your immortal soul, Jane.”

I flash her a toothsome grin. “Ain’t you got enough real world problems to keep you busy?”

She starts to laugh, the sound quickly turning into a broken sob. I wrap her up in my arms and squeeze her tight.

“Hey. Hey! It’s okay. You’re okay, and we’re okay. Well, at least until that pack of shamblers gets here.”

Her arms wrap around my middle, returning the embrace. “I know, I just, for a minute, I thought he was going to kill me. I’m not ready to die, Jane.”

“Well, then, I reckon we should get out of here.”

“Negress Jezebel,” comes a wheezing voice from the side of the office. We turn. In my joy at seeing Katherine unharmed I’d completely forgotten about the pastor. He lies on the ground, a hole in his shoulder and blood soaking his jacket. I have my answer as to where the sheriff’s wild shot got to.

“Harlot,” the preacher says, bloody foam flecking his lips. He struggles into a sitting position.

Katherine takes a step forward but I put her to the side, handing her the shotgun I hold. “Why don’t you go see what else the armory has in your size? We still got a whole bunch of dead to face.”

“What about him?” she says, her voice uncertain.

“Oh, I’ll take care of him.”

“But . . .” She drifts off, pushing her lips into a thin line.

I bend down to pick up the sheriff’s revolver. It’s a nice piece, and the heft and weight of it feels just right in my hand. The sheriff’s hat, with its wide brim, is a few feet away and mostly free of blood. I pick it up and put it on, adjusting it so that it sits at a jaunty angle.

Katherine scowls at me. “Jane.”

“What? He’s dead, he ain’t going to need it anymore. Besides, this is a quality bit of haberdashery.” Katherine says nothing, and finally makes her way to the armory. “See if they got a belt to hold my sickles,” I call. Her response is silence.

The preacher’s breath is coming in pants and whistles now, and his front is pretty well soaked through with blood. He won’t last much longer. I grab a chair and swing it over near where he reclines on the floor. His breaths come faster as I sit down, and I give him a wide smile.

“Now, now, no need to panic, I ain’t going to kill you. I reckon that leak in your chest is going to do that.” I cross my legs and lean back in the chair, the revolver heavy in my lap. “Since you’re a man of God, I’m going to tell you a story, confess some sins.”

The pastor doesn’t respond, so I continue.

“You recall the Years of Discord? I was only a child, but I remember them. The constant fear of someone turning, the packs of dead prowling the countryside, the news that another person had died, only to return and eat half the household. It was unbearable. I still picture the fear on my momma’s face whenever we got word another person went missing. But we endured. We came to be self-sufficient, we built strong fences. And we learned to work together to survive.