Jane has not finished poking about the men’s lack of swords. “What about you? You like this dandy here, ain’t never considered it, either?”
“Rifle was all I could afford. Swords and long knives are expensive,” Jeb says, his words deliberate and careful. His cadence bears faint traces of the South, most likely one of the Lost States; perhaps he was raised there. “I’ve needed more protection from the living than the dead since my family and I arrived in California, and live folks tend to respect a gun more than a sword.”
Jane’s face flashes despair before she once again shutters her emotions. There is much left unsaid in his proclamation, and I think once more about the burn marks on Miss Mellie May’s boardinghouse. Not all threats can be dealt with like the dead. I must admit, upon reflection, that there is a simplicity of fighting for one’s life against obvious monsters.
Jane purses her lips and gives him a short nod. “Well said. Have you got some skill with a blade?”
“Some,” Jeb says.
Jane reaches to her right pant leg and unbuttons a section next to her thigh. She detaches a short sword in a scabbard. All together it is the length of her thigh, and Mr. Stevens is agog—from the brown length of leg Jane reveals or from the fierceness of the weapon, I cannot say. But the look he gives her is one I am quite familiar with, and I cannot think Jane will be pleased to know she has an admirer.
“Here,” she says, handing Jeb the blade. “In case things get a bit more intimate.” To Mr. Stevens, she says, “you just try to stay out of the way of the work.”
“Miss McKeene,” he says, straightening his coat, “I assure you my rifle skill is second to none.”
“Uh-huh,” Jane replies, and we fall into silence as we walk.
Our plan is simple: retrace our steps back to the river and then cut up along the bank, keeping a good distance from the water, hopefully far enough to evade notice. This serves a dual purpose. First, it gives us a point of reference for our assessment. If the rash of shamblers was caused by an isolated incident, like a boat being overrun, then we should see a sharp decrease in their presence as they are washed down river. Though the restless dead are very good at bobbing along for what seems like forever, they cannot swim. Second, retracing our steps gives us a chance to put down any enterprising undead that somehow ambled onto the bank and had seen fit to follow after us, keeping everyone back at the wagon train safe.
This is, of course, only theory. If there is a horde approaching overland as well, all of our efforts will be for naught. But despair means certain death, so we are optimistic.
We make our way apace—Jane scowling, Jeb distant, Mr. Stevens following close behind Jane like a puppy, Carolina vaguely amused by the whole endeavor—until we get within sight of the river.
The edge of the closest bank is still almost a mile away, but we don’t need to get any closer to see that the outlook is not good. I half wonder if it’s a trick of the light making the water look as though it boils.
Mr. Stevens reaches into his pack and withdraws a bronze spyglass, holding it up to his eye. He stills like a rabbit sighted in the short grass, and slowly he lowers the glass from his eye. His skin goes gray, and the man looks as though he has had the fright of his life.
“My God,” he breathes. “What are they doing?”
Jane takes the spyglass from Mr. Stevens without asking and looks herself. Her expression is grim as she hands it off to me.
As I take my turn with the spyglass, my heart falls. The dead are thick in the water, flailing and bobbing. A few gain the bank at the S curve where we fought them earlier, dragging themselves onto land and then heading in the direction the wagon train came from, back toward San Francisco. The dead are too numerous for this to have been a random ship or even a small town that was overrun. And all of them look to be freshly turned, with none of the decay one would see in a larger horde that had been building over time.
“They’re heading west,” Jane says. “Yep. That’s a proper horde.”
I pass the spyglass off to Carolina and turn to her. “You are thinking Gideon Carr did this,” I say, intuiting her thoughts from the murderous look on her face.
“Perry, the bounty that told me Gideon was in Sacramento, said he had a new lab. Doesn’t matter what happened in Denver or to Nicodemus, or with Ghering’s failed experiments back in Baltimore . . . These men and their prejudices dressed up as science.” Jane stalks off a little ways into the woods, swearing up a blue storm as she goes, and I turn back to the rest of our group.
“Jane thinks this horde came from Sacramento,” I explain. “The work of a man we knew back in Kansas.”
“Gideon Carr, the inventor you told me about?” Carolina says, passing the spyglass to Jeb. The man looks for only a moment before handing it back to Mr. Stevens. Like the other man, he also looks like he has had the shock of his life.
“A scoundrel and a blackheart, he is,” Jane says returning. She stares at the water for a heartbeat, a muscle in her jaw working. “How far is it from here to Sacramento?”
“Twelve, maybe fifteen miles,” Carolina says. “I think we’ve got our answer as to the source of this endless stream of shamblers. Can I assume you’ve reconsidered your plan to press east?”
“On the contrary,” Jane says, the mad glimmer returned to her eyes, “I’m now even more determined to find Gideon Carr.”
I want her answer to surprise me, but it does not. Not now, not after all I’ve seen from her since our reunion, and not from the things she admitted came before. She is never going to give up. Not even if it kills her. And for all her skill and strength, I do not see any other end to this quest for revenge. There is a very slim chance Gideon Carr is working by himself, Jane seems to forget how good the man was at building alliances and using others to further his agenda. Had he not done exactly that to Jane and I in Summerland? I have very little doubt that Jane will find Gideon Carr, and when she does she will rush in and meet her tragic end.
“Of course you want to find the man,” I say. “And I am going with you.”
Jane freezes for a moment. “Are you mad?”
“No,” I say, my voice casual and even. I must choose my words carefully. If Jane thinks I am doing this out of pity, or sentiment, she will only find a way to abandon me at the first opportunity. “I am simply repaying my debts. You saved my life back in Summerland, and I owe you. If you want to go on some wild-goose chase to kill a man who has cheated death at every turn, that is your decision. But this is mine. I pay my debts.”
Jane sighs heavily. As I suspected, she will not argue. Emotions make her uncomfortable and tetchy, but obligation? That is a tune Jane McKeene will dance to.
I do not relish journeying upstream toward Sacramento, but I meant what I said. I will not abandon Jane again. I am not nearly as afraid of dying as I am of grieving for her once more.
“Miss McKeene, take my spyglass. It should aid you in this quest of yours.” Mr. Stevens holds it out, and Jane takes it with a nod. I am certain the man fairly swoons from her momentary regard.
“We’ll be cutting up past Abbottsville,” Carolina says. “And then Oroville. That will allow us to stay clear of Sacramento. We’ll then follow the Feather River up into the mountains. A piece of advice if you . . . Well, once you’re finished with your business, and heading up toward Haven: take note of the Klamath and the Paiute tribes once you get up into the mountains. They’ll mostly keep to themselves as long as they don’t see you as a threat.”
Jane nods, and as Mr. Stevens begins to tell her a bit more about the journey to Sacramento, Carolina pulls me aside, frowning. “Are you sure this is something you want to do?”
“She was—” I catch myself as I watch Jane bid farewell to the other men. “She is my friend, Carolina.”
“Well,” he says, giving her one last look. “I hope she’s worth it.”
If the Devil’s Bride is any kind of monster, as some say she is, then I fear for our land. Because the West is a blood
y, brutal place, and it seems fitting our heroines should be cut from the same cloth.
—Western Tales, Volume 43
—JANE—
Chapter 39
In Which I Have Regrets and Count My Blessings
Katherine and I have only gone a few miles further upriver when we decide to settle in for the night. We see a small town, but we don’t consider knocking on doors and asking for hospitality; there’s no way to know whether the folks here are friendly to Negroes or not. But as we draw close to the town, we soon conclude it doesn’t matter.
Everything is dark and quiet. Windows are shuttered, and there ain’t a soul to be seen. The town laundry, the sign written in both English and Chinese, is still and unattended. There is no light visible in any of the houses, and the lone general store boasts broken windows and empty shelves. We decide to take a shortcut through the main street, and there’s an ominous feeling to the place that keeps us moving quickly.
“Where do you think they have gone?” Katherine asks. “We have not seen a soul since we left the wagon train.”
“Maybe word reached the town here faster than the shamblers,” I say, glancing toward the river. “If whatever precipitated this horde happened a few days ago, people could’ve cleared out ahead of the danger. Crossed the river and gone north, or made west, right for the ocean.”
Katherine says nothing, but her countenance makes it clear just how terrible an idea she believes this whole endeavor to be.
We put another mile or so between us and the river, ground we’ll have to retrace in the morning to get to Sacramento, before we make camp. By the time we do I’m exhausted. Between chasing down Richard Smith and working the wagon train, I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week. The night Callie left me. I sit and lean against a tree, head tucked into the collar of my coat. It’s cold enough where a fire would be appreciated, but we have no idea where dead might be in these parts, and we decide not to risk it. Plus, the dead are not the only danger out here. The less chance of discovery by anyone, living or dead, the better.
Katherine digs a canteen and some pemmican out of her pack, handing me a decent chunk, and I chew on the dried meat while she fills my cup. The sun sets quickly, as though it, too, is eager to get away from the dead, and soon the dark presses in. There ain’t much of a moon to speak of, and the night is quiet except for the occasional rustle in the underbrush, the hoot of an owl.
“Jane,” Katherine says, voice low.
“Hmm?”
“Did you think about me?” she asks. “And not just me,” she hurriedly continues, “but Sue, Lily, or any of the other Miss Preston’s girls? I remember you used to dote on Ruthie . . .”
It’s the kind of question a body can only ask in the dark, when there’s no light to show the hurt and loneliness behind the question.
“No,” I say, voice flat.
Moments pass by, only the night sounds marking the time.
“Actually, that ain’t true,” I say after a long while. I want to leave this gulf between us, to keep her and Sue at a distance. But Katherine is so damn persistent, and I’m so tired of being cold and angry. It’s like my rage at Gideon Carr continues to burn up anything good inside of me, and I just want a moment’s peace, just a few hours to feel like a person and not an instrument of destruction. “I did think of you. I thought about each and every one of you. I wondered if you all had made it to the river or even out of Kansas. I thought about whether you’d gone back to that flooded city where you grew up, if Sue had finally found herself a husband and become a mother like she’d dreamed back in Miss Preston’s. I used to imagine getting better and heading east to find you.
“But that was only the first few days after we separated. After I saw Miss Duncan stalking around the streets of Nicodemus with no trace of her humanity left . . . Every time I thought of any of you, all I could see was you all turned shambler.”
Used to be that thinking about the long winter trapped in Nicodemus, surrounded by nothing but the frozen dead, made me feel panicky. It hasn’t been that way in a while, though, and I owe Katherine honesty. She’s pledged herself to my cause, even knowing what I intend to do and how I intend to do it.
That’s more than even Callie did. And the thought of it threatens to overwhelm me in a way that nothing has in a long while. I’ve let the drawbridge down just a bit, and now emotions storm the gates of my heart.
And I’m just so damn tired that I let it happen.
“Katherine,” I continue, “if it had been you I’d seen that day instead of Miss Duncan—dress torn, neck open, eyes dead—I wouldn’t be here right now. I never would’ve left Nicodemus. I would’ve just laid down in the middle of that snowstorm and waited to die. So, no, I didn’t think about you. Because that’s how I survived.”
“That’s good, Jane,” Katherine says, her voice heavy with emotion. “But it was not me, and I am here. No matter what else has come before, I am alive and I am here. With you.”
I figure she’s going to say more, but after that there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the stillness of the night, and soon we fall into the abyss of our own ruminations.
I wake with a jolt, drawing my gun instinctually. Katherine crouches next to me. I can just barely make her out as my eyes adjust to the predawn light.
“Jane,” she says, the sound little more than a breath. “I think we are in a bit of trouble.”
I strain my ears for the sound of the dead, those characteristic moans and the stink of rot. I exhale in relief as I realize there’s nothing.
“You got a match?” I whisper. At first I think maybe she didn’t hear me, but then I see slow movement, and the silence is broken by the hiss and pop of a match strike.
The flare of light illuminates the small clearing in which we’ve laid down. Katherine’s eyes are wide, the blue nearly black in the low light.
Surrounding our little copse of trees, swaying from side to side like a congregation caught by the spirit, are the dead.
It’s just like that night back in Summerland. Then, I hadn’t understood why the dead had hesitated, warily, before attacking us. Now, I know it to be some side effect of Gideon’s vaccine—he and I had been at the front of the small army we had led against the incursion, and until we had attacked, they had similarly declined to make the first move.
Callie had explained it as we’d traveled west. “It ain’t something that happens before you get the bite when it’s just the vaccine in your blood. But a shambler bite and the vaccine makes the dead weird, like they’re waiting for orders. You ever hear of a snake charmer? Well, I heard once there were these men in India that could sing to these snakes that are more poisonous than a rattler. They could make them sway and keep them under control so that they didn’t strike. We’re like that now with the dead. As long as we move slow and steady, they won’t attack anyone at all.”
I hadn’t fully believed it, but yesterday down by the river had proven Callie’s hypothesis correct. I still ain’t entirely sure how the whole thing works, it ain’t like I’ve had a chance to ask Gideon, but I know what I’ve seen with my own eyes and I have a plan.
“Okay,” I say, checking my gear, the sword sheathed on my back. “Sit here next to me. We’re going to wait a little, until the sun comes up. Then we’ll deal with this in the light.”
“Jane—” Katherine begins, but I lay a hand on her knee.
“If they haven’t come for you already, I don’t think they will. They’re confused—I think it’s a side effect of the vaccine. I believe they won’t think either of us to be a target unless we attack them. So, we bide our time.”
I slowly draw a knife and place it on my outstretched legs as Katherine settles herself next to me. She’s shaking, and I try to comfort her the best I can, which ain’t much at all.
The sun rises slowly, casting the world in shades of gray. I stand, Katherine remaining crouched down on the ground as I slowly approach each of the dead. They don’t move, th
eir milky gaze fixed on some distant point, even as I press the knife into the base of their skulls. One by one I slide the blade in to sever each of their brain stems, and gently lower their bodies to the ground, not disturbing any of the others as I do.
After a few are put down, however, the rest turn toward me, like I’m north on a compass, and my hands take on a tremor.
This ain’t something I ever want to do again.
It’s hard work, stabbing and catching their weight, and Katherine draws her swords as I work, but she trusts me and doesn’t jump to her feet, doesn’t make a single sudden move.
She trusts me, even though I ain’t given her a single reason to since we’ve been reunited.
I complete the task quickly, and when I lower the final shambler to the ground, leaving the largest man for last, Katherine jumps to her feet, swords drawn, her earlier fear replaced by a fine kind of rage.
“This is why the dead behaved so strangely in Nicodemus,” she says. “Just waiting outside of the town for so long.”
I nod. “Possibly. Gideon told us the dead were evolving. I can’t tell what was a lie and what was the truth with him. But what I do know is this”—I gesture vaguely to the corpses that surround us—“has happened more than once when Callie and I were traveling overland. This weird sort of waiting.”
“And after we’d escaped Summerland and we were on that farm—” she begins as if to herself. Her eyes move from the dead to me, seeing if I heard her before she silenced herself.
But I did hear. My knife falls out of my hand and sticks upright in the grass, the blade buried in the dirt.
Jackson. He said that the dead were waiting for him, the morning he got bit. He said they were down in the tall grass and then they sprung up when he walked by. As if they’d been waiting.
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