“Don’t want you accidentally shooting me in the back as we clear this mess,” I say, my voice full of the apology I can’t bring myself to say. Katherine was right. She and I are the ones trained to put down the dead. Not everyone is cut from that cloth, and expecting Nessie to be something she ain’t is unfair.
This part is best left to the killers amongst us.
Katherine and I walk toward the shamblers, slowly and cautiously. The dead are so busy feeding that they haven’t even turned to look at us. They’re down on hands and knees on the left side of the wagon, using teeth and hands to gorge themselves on the entrails of an unrecognizable man. They dined on his face and neck first, and the road beside the overturned wagon is scarlet with his blood. The attack must have been sudden, violent, and recent.
A few moments earlier, and it could have been us.
“Got any ideas?” I ask Katherine.
“Normally I would say we shoot them, but I am afraid that gunshots might spook the horse at this distance,” she says.
“Not to mention bring the other horde running.”
“Yes, the horde.” Katherine looks briefly behind us before turning her attention back to the dusty, blood-soaked road before us. “Well, I reckon we go in hard and fast. You want to lead off?” She eyes me warily; this is no doubt a peace offering for the thrashing a few hours earlier.
I unsheathe my sickles, turning them in my hands until my wrists are warmed up. “You’re going to have to show me that fancy hold you got me in,” I say, and her answering smile has more than just a smidge of relief.
I take a deep breath and sprint right at the dead. My skirts are high enough that they don’t tangle my legs too easily, but I have the momentary thought that trousers would be even better. I really miss the ones I used to wear when I ran the roads back around Baltimore. Maybe I’ll find myself some when we get to Nicodemus.
And then I’m swinging my sickle to take off the head of the nearest shambler, a man that wears the garb of a homesteader, work boots and rough homespun garments, all covered in splotches of red and black, his blood and that of his victim. A gurgling scream, a slice, and I’m moving on to the next one.
Whatever advantage I may have had in running up on the dead is now lost. They abandon their meal and come after me, growls rumbling deep in their throats. I take out four more, leaving another five, before Katherine draws even with me, her swords dancing complicated patterns that catch the sunlight as they sever heads.
I move wide left to give her room to work, taking out a couple of dead that decide I’m the easier target, and we’ve just cleared the last shambler when a shout comes from behind me.
“Hurry up! The horde is on the move!” Lily screams, the terror naked in her voice. She points to the rising cloud of dust on the horizon behind us, the air heavy like a deadly storm.
“Dammit!” I yell. The felled wagon is smack-dab in the middle of the road. Our wagon might be able to make it over the bodies, but there’s no way we can make it around the wagon without risking the wheels falling into the rut on either side of the road or snapping an axel. And the fallen horse attached to the damaged wagons is in no condition to move. Poor creature. Now I understand why we always used iron ponies, the horseless carriages driven by steam, back east. The dead don’t devour steel.
“Quickly, we need to unhook the horse and push this contraption out of the way,” I say.
Katherine glances over her shoulder, her blue eyes going comically wide. “There is no time,” she says. She hurdles the dead and runs to the front, hacking at the leather straps with her sword. I lean against the back of the wagon and get ready to push.
“Jane!” comes the shout from behind me.
“We’re clearing the road!” I yell. I don’t look back, don’t turn to see how much ground the horde has covered in just the last half minute. The stink of putrefaction fills my nose, a smell stronger than the ten shamblers we just downed could manufacture.
We are out of time.
I shove against the back of the wagon with all my might, grunting from the effort. The thing moves a little, but not enough. I turn around, putting my back against the wagon, and now I can see why folks are hollering at me.
The dead are less than a quarter of a mile away.
I push again, but it’s impossible with the bodies of the dead blocking the wheels. And there’s no time to move them all before the oncoming mass of shamblers reach us.
“Help me lift it!”
Katherine is next to me, and I immediately place my palms flat under the bed of the wagon and heave. Flipping it over won’t clear the road completely, but it’s enough space that Sallie should be able to squeeze our wagon by.
We grunt and strain, splinters digging into my palms from the rough wood. But the thing finally begins to rise, tilting over and landing with a crash that is swallowed by the terrified screams coming from our wagon.
“Go, go, go!” I shout.
Sallie doesn’t need the prompting. She stops the wagon just long enough for Katherine and me to clamber aboard, and then we’re flying down the track, the dead now at a full sprint behind us.
Most times, the dead ain’t fast, especially those that have been wandering about since the Years of Discord, those dark times just after the dead first rose in 1863. Some of the shamblers from that time are still dragging themselves around—one can often tell by the remains of their Union or Confederate uniforms. But these are fresh, and they continue to gain on the wagon even as Sallie urges the horse into a gallop.
These dead can’t all be from Summerland. There’s too many of them. Could there be other towns lost to the horde recently? It’s a grim thought, and I wonder—not for the first time—if we’re running toward salvation or ruin. Jackson had wanted us to forget about Nicodemus all together and make straight for Fort Riley. And maybe he was right. Is Nicodemus going to be able to withstand a horde like this?
And what if Nicodemus has already fallen to the same fate as Summerland?
“Jane,” Katherine yells, pointing at the dead. “They are gaining on us!”
“The horse cain’t maintain this pace,” Sallie yells back at us. “The wagon is too heavy!”
“We have to slow down the horde,” I say. I pull out my sidearm and take aim at one of the nearest dead. My first shot misses, but I cock the hammer again and pull the trigger, and this time I manage to clip its knee. It goes down, tripping a few of its neighbors and causing a moment of localized catastrophe.
My third shot misses widely again, and Katherine lets out a huff beside me.
“Save your bullets,” she says, pulling out her rifle. “This wagon is bouncing all over the place, and we both know you are a middling shot, even in ideal circumstances.”
I swear, that girl would criticize God himself if he were to come down and grant her a few miracles. Still, she’s right. I put my gun away. “Here, I’ll play tripod,” I say as she begins to take aim down the length of the rifle.
She takes up position in the wagon, sinking down onto her left knee, and she plants her right foot on the floor, propping her right arm on her upper thigh. I sit in front of her, legs crossed, and plug my ears with my fingers as she rests her left hand, which cradles the rifle’s forearm, on top of my right shoulder.
“Call the count?” she says, yelling to be heard over the noise of the wheels as we hurtle along the road.
I nod. “Old white woman with a blue dress,” I say, picking out a target. “Fire at will!”
The wagon bounces along, and there’s a momentary pause as Katherine takes a shallow breath and releases it before she pulls the trigger. The shambler’s head explodes in a spray of blackened blood, its body falling sideways and collapsing the column so that at least a dozen of the others fall with it.
“Next,” Katherine calls.
“Um . . .” My mouth goes dry as I spot one of the dead toward the edge of the pack. It’s an old white man, his shirtfront covered in dried blood, and a stab of recognit
ion zigzags through me.
It’s Pastor Snyder, the miserable preacher from Summerland.
I’d left him bleeding out from a gunshot wound in the sheriff’s office. The bullet hadn’t been mine—an errant shot from his dying son had been the cause—but I’d left him to the approaching horde all the same. Either the shamblers found him before death did, or he returned on his own with no one around to drive a nail into his forehead after he expired. And seeing him run toward the wagon ignites a fire in my chest, a determination that ain’t been there the past few hours.
I did not survive the miseries of Summerland to die on some dusty road in the middle of Kansas.
“Jane?” Katherine yells, and I realize she’s still waiting for me to call the shot.
“Indian woman wearing homespun,” I say, picking out a more centrally positioned target.
Katherine fires again, and again the shambler falls. Her rifle is a repeater, so she has four more shots before she has to reload. I thank whatever misbegotten funds supplied the armory of Summerland. The place was terrible in every single way, but at least their weapons were top-notch. The dead have already fallen a ways behind us thanks to the commotion that Katherine has caused.
We continue, me calling out the shots and her taking them until the horde falls back far enough that they’re out of range of the rifle. We can still see them, maybe a mile away.
Katherine didn’t miss a single shot.
“Best at Miss Preston’s,” she says, a mischievous grin on her face as she reloads and stows the rifle.
I roll my eyes as I turn around and sit against the back of the wagon. “If you say so.”
Sallie glances over her shoulder at the horde. “I’m glad you girls gave us some breathing room, but we got another problem.”
“What else is new,” mutters the Duchess. She holds Thomas and Lily toward the front of the wagon, and while the children both look scared, they’ve got their wits about them for the moment.
“The horse is wiped,” Sallie says. “He’s gonna run himself to death if we’re not careful.”
And, as if on cue, the horse goes down.
I grab for the side of the wagon as we skid to a sudden stop, everyone sliding around. Nessie takes a tumble, and I vault out of the wagon after her.
“You okay?” I ask as I help her to her feet.
She nods, but her face crumples immediately. “We’re going to die, ain’t we?”
I shake my head. “No. No we ain’t. Not today.”
The horse lies on his side. He’s not dead, but he’s dog-tired. I know how he feels. There have been a dozen times I’ve thought about just lying down, giving up. But that ain’t my nature.
Which is why I’m going to do what I’m about to do.
I pull the knife from my boot and cut the horse loose. He looks at me with wild eyes, panting, his sides heaving, and I feel terrible. I push the sorrow aside and swallow thickly.
“You’ve been a good horse,” I say to him. To Sallie I ask, “Is there a way to get him on his feet?”
Her eyes widen as she realizes what I mean. “We can try,” she says, coming to stand next to me.
She grabs his reins and tries pulling him to his feet. At first he refuses to budge, so I walk behind him and push his rump like I can will him to rise. The horse tries to roll over, back onto his feet. It’s no use.
He’s finished.
“Let’s try once more,” Sallie says.
She pulls on the reins, and I get my shoulder behind the horse. This time he gets up, unsteady. His sides heave and there’s a wet, soapy-looking coating all over him. But I’m hoping he can serve one last purpose.
One of the first tenets of instruction at Miss Preston’s is that an Attendant must be willing to do whatever is necessary to protect her charge. Anything, no matter how distasteful.
Katherine draws up beside me. “Jane,” she says. She knows what I’m about. It seems that today is all about doing the most regrettable things.
Once the horse has gained his footing, I take the reins from Sallie and turn the horse toward the plains. I draw my pistol and fire a shot right next to him. Just as before, it’s enough to spook him. And this time, no one is holding the reins to keep his burst of speed under control.
The horse takes off across the prairie, perpendicular to where we stand. How light and free he must feel without the weight of the wagon behind him. But as he runs, so, too, does the following horde, shifting to sprint after the movement of a potential meal.
“Come on,” I say after it’s clear that the horde is on the horse and not us any longer. I don’t wait to watch the horse fall again. I can’t.
I won’t mourn the horse. I’ve already got enough grieving to do.
I take Thomas and help the Duchess out of the wagon. “Let’s not waste any more daylight.”
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul.
—Psalm 23: 1–3
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 8
Notes on a Struggle
It is with a dark mood that we set out after losing the horse. Jane carries Thomas, and after only a little while Lily begins to fall behind, so I carry her as well. We had to abandon all but a few of the provisions we were able to scrounge up at the homestead, and after only a short ways I realize that having to leave behind the jugs of water we pumped is a huge blow. The landscape is desolate, nothing but grass and a few scrub trees, and the sun unforgiving. We will be lucky to make it to Nicodemus.
As we walk I try to push my panic to the side and focus on each small thing I am doing. Walking down the road. Balancing Lily on my back and the rifle in my hand. Taking small shallow breaths to allow for the corset, which is still much looser than I like. I watch Jane walk, her head held high, and her resilience gives me strength.
As long as Jane can keep going, I can as well.
We have only gone a mile or so when we come upon another scene of carnage: a man who has been shot between the eyes. His boots are missing, as are any weapons he might have been carrying.
“Bandits?” I ask.
Jane nods. “I’ve never known shamblers to steal a man’s boots.” She hands Thomas off to the Madam and checks the man’s eyes. “No yellow.” She looks the body up and down, waving her wrist limply. “I don’t see any bite, either.”
“Then it was a murder,” the Madam says, pulling at the low neckline of her dress in worry.
Jane nods. “Looks like. It’s possible he asked someone to end him before he turned, but . . . it’s probably too much to hope this was a mercy killing. Let’s pray we hit Nicodemus before nightfall.”
Everyone nods and continues to walk, with renewed energy. The dead are one thing, but highwaymen are another. Though Jane and I are trained in combat, a coordinated band of ambushers will likely be more than we can handle. And our party will provide a tempting target to any ne’er-do-wells that might spy us.
We walk for what seems like hours. I put Lily back down when I start to falter myself, handing her the rifle to carry. We left hers back in the wagon, since it was best to travel as light as possible and she admitted she was not much of a shot anyhow. But even without the added weight, my feet ache. I still wear the garb of a modest lady, not the functional attire of an Attendant. My boots are meant for sitting in a parlor, not walking miles on a dirt road. I am considering asking for a halt—if I am exhausted I know the soiled doves must be as well—when we round a curve in the road. I blink.
There, in the distance, is a town.
“Jane?”
“I see it,” she says.
We continue to walk, and if our pace picks up a bit there is nothing but hope fueling it. The collection of structures grows in detail and shape, and we are nearly to the town proper when we come to a sign that bids us welcome to Nicodemus.
“We made it,” I say, and relief loosens the tension that has been riding my shoulders.
“For now,” Jane says, pointing behind us. In the fading daylight on the horizon, a cloud of dust that could only be the oncoming horde is visible. We may have confused them temporarily with the horse, but it was only a matter of time before they were back on our trail. “Let’s hope the fine people of Nicodemus will let us inside of their walls before the dead get here.”
We keep walking, past a handful of out buildings, and take in an impressive sight. We are at a triple-wire fence, the barbed wire sturdy and shiny, the integrity well maintained. There is another barrier of angular stakes, and then farther along the track another fence of barbed wire and then finally a taller barrier wall made of bricks. Actual bricks! It is a fine wall, and it puts the heaped dirt barrier of Summerland to shame.
Did Sheriff Snyder know there was a town this well fortified so near? If so, no wonder the man’s control over Summerland was so fierce. If we had known such a place was so close, we might have just taken our chances and ran.
There are a handful of girls standing guard at the first gate. For a moment I wonder to myself why they appear so familiar. Squeals jar me out of my haze of confusion.
“Jane! And Miss Priss! Now ain’t that something!” Sue comes forward, her height and girth completely unchanged since the last time we saw her. She is a head taller than any of the rest of us, and with her massive size she could clear a path like no other Attendant we have known. Sue’s skin is dark, her hair shorn since last we saw her, and the dress she wears is one of the ugliest calicos I have ever set eyes on, only coming to just below her knees. But she grins widely, bright-eyed and happy. She carries a scythe that looks to be well used, and the girls who follow behind her watch with an expression of adoration. Sue was one of the most formidable girls at Miss Preston’s. To say I am glad to see her would be an understatement.
I am less thrilled that my derisive nickname seems to have found me in the middle of the prairie.
“Big Sue! Ruthie! Jenny!” Jane calls out each girl’s name as she embraces her. She knows more of the girls than I do, and after a moment I realize these are not all Miss Preston’s girls—some of them must be girls Jane knows from her time on the patrols at Summerland. “Are Ida and Lucas here?” she asks.
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