Gideon Carr has not yet taken everything from me. But if Katherine dies, he will have won.
I take another step back. Katherine is still behind me, and I use my body to block her and draw my sword slowly. She tenses, finally seeing the threat before us, and I keep going, walking backward a single slow step at a time. Katherine is bright enough to understand what I’m doing, and we continue to move back the way we came. The dead haven’t charged, and I have to hope that keeping myself between her and them will keep the situation calm.
“Jane,” Katherine says, her voice hoarse. I hazard a glance over my shoulder, and I see the problem. A handful of the dead, not many, have started to appear from between the rows of the tent city.
“Just keep moving,” I say. The dead seem confused, like they were this morning. They jerk this way and that, sensing Katherine but unable to ascertain her direction. A lifetime passes between every step we take, but eventually we have put enough space between us and the tent city. When we reach the road leading us back to the river, I push Katherine.
“Run,” I say.
And she does.
A few of the closest shamblers break after her, but I put them down easily, tripping a couple. The rest of the horde stays within the hazy smoke of the tent city, and once I’m certain we won’t be followed I take off after Katherine.
We run for a while, and eventually I put my sword away in the sheath that crisscrosses my body. Katherine waits near the bridge we crossed this morning, and I sigh heavily, enjoying the crisp, clean air. We didn’t make it very far.
“Well, that way is no good,” Katherine says, coughing a bit. “Maybe we should see if we can get north of the city and come in from another direction. Or what about the railways? Following the train tracks might be a better plan.”
“No, Kate, it’s over.” I shake my head. “Gideon Carr is in the wind again. It ain’t worth wasting any more time on this. We’ll head back to the wagon train, and I’ll figure out what to do on the way. He’s here somewhere, and it’s only a matter of time before he pops back up again.” I ain’t giving up on finding Gideon Carr altogether, but I have to be smart about this. Losing Katherine to this search ain’t going to help anything. It’s just going to be another death on my conscience. One I simply could not live with, if I’m being honest with myself.
She gives me a wide grin and nods. I scowl. “You ain’t got to be so happy about it,” I grumble.
“That is not why I am smiling. I just never thought I would be so glad to hear you call me that detestable nickname.”
I shake my head and sigh. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to charging into a burning city, dead or no. But now I’m right back where I started. I have no idea how to find Gideon.
“Come on, let’s go back to that wagon train.”
We reach the wagons before nightfall. Turns out even our little adventure hadn’t put all that much distance between us and them. The reactions to our arrival are mixed—quite a few folks are stricken to hear that Sacramento is no more, but mostly everyone seems to be relieved that they are gone from San Francisco, where the horde is inevitably headed, and that we’ve returned to bolster their protection detail, especially now that there are shamblers about.
“I suppose we’ll see how Edison’s Great Golden Wall fares against real resistance, now,” says a skinny colored woman who bears a striking resemblance to Carolina Jones. I cannot help but agree. San Francisco is in for a fight.
After supper, Thaddeus Stevens, blowhard extraordinaire, brings out a leather-bound Bible and reads a bit of Scripture for those comforted by such things. Quite a few of the single ladies on the train, and no small number of the married ones as well, jockey for position as he reads by the firelight. I am unsurprised to see Sue seated to his right, eyes closed as he reads. She was always taken by ridiculous folks. It’s why we were friends at Miss Preston’s. Even Carolina stands on the edge of the circle giving Stevens cow eyes.
Katherine and I seem to be the only ones not smitten by the man.
“Don’t you want to join the Bible study?” I say to her, nodding toward the group.
“Jane, please. Even the good Lord has limits on the trials He expects us to endure,” she mutters, too low for any ears but mine. I swallow my laugh.
“Neither of you are of a mind to take in the Scripture?” Juliet asks, walking up behind me and Katherine on cat feet.
I snort. “What kind of muttonhead reads Revelations at a time like this?”
“Honestly,” Katherine huffs, and it is so very much her that this time I do laugh, the sound carrying. The moment of pure happiness takes me by surprise, and a number of heads at the fire turn to look at me, their expressions suspicious and wary, and just as quickly as it appeared the joy evaporates.
No one wants to see a killer happy. And for good reason. I fight my residual mirth back into the shadows of my heart.
Juliet gestures for us to follow her, and I put aside my ruminations and walk. Focusing on just doing the next thing has gotten me through the darkest of times, and I have to stick with what works. We follow to where Louisa, Carolina, Jeb, and the skinny woman who spoke earlier sit. She introduces herself as Miss Mellie May, Carolina’s sister, and her regard for me is a bit more than I am comfortable with. I make a mental note to ask Katherine about the woman later.
There’s an air of tension to the assembled group, and it’s no wonder why. The Bible study continues behind us, which means this is the kind of meeting where having everyone chime in ain’t the best idea. That never means anything good.
“Sorry to round you all up like this, but we’re in a bit of a pickle,” Louisa says.
“We’ve taken stock and realized that changing our route means we don’t quite have enough rations to make it through the mountains,” Juliet says. At Louisa’s sharp glance she shrugs. “No point in mincing words.”
“How many days do we have?” asks Carolina.
“About four, if we make it count,” Louisa says. “I’m guessing a few of the families might have something squirreled away, but most folks gave everything they had to get out of San Francisco.”
“Is there any chance of hunting?” I ask. “I’ve seen game aplenty in my travels.”
“This time of year, it’ll be difficult,” Carolina says. “Especially with so many homesteads around. That’s a lot of rabbits to feed a hundred and fifty people.”
Juliet points a stick in the dirt, and in the glow of the lantern begins to draw. “This is the river and the path we were going to take into the mountains. I propose we take a new path, along the Siskiyou Trail. We’ll head north, and there should be a good number of towns where we can stop, and where they’ll hopefully have supplies we can purchase.”
“Assuming the dead haven’t beat us there,” Miss May says.
“If the dead flank us, we shall have much more than low rations to worry about,” Katherine points out.
“Well, we are just going to have to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Carolina says. “My concern is more about the towns we’re passing through. Do you think anyone will sell us supplies?”
“And at a fair price,” Jeb says.
“I can probably assist with that,” Louisa says.
“Yes, and me as well,” Katherine says, a sad smile on her face. “No one ever assumes me to be a Negro, and that is something we can use to our advantage in this situation.”
“We can ask Doc Nelson as well,” Carolina says. “He dislikes passing, but I believe he would make an allowance in this case.”
“We’ll still be strapped for funds,” Juliet says. “In addition to a shorter route and a cheaper opportunity for us to resupply, we’d planned on picking up more folks in Sacramento.”
“You can take my bounty,” I say. “I need to get boots for Tomás, and proper clothing as well, but the bounty on Johnson was a hundred dollars. That’s a fair amount.”
Everyone looks like they want to argue, to refuse, and I wish I could rescind the offer
. I’m likely going to need the funds in the future when I head off to find Gideon. But it ain’t like I can’t take another bounty. Besides, the body ain’t even Johnson’s, anyway.
“That will likely get us through.” Juliet nods.
“What kinds of risks are we taking, going this new way?” Jeb asks, staring at the drawing in the dirt. “Will bandits be a threat?”
“The Army has been very good at patrolling the trail and keeping it pretty safe in the past,” Juliet says. “But I’m guessing they’ll have their hands full trying to put down this horde. We’ll have to be careful, but no more than we were before. The dead are now by far the greatest concern.”
“And that means speed will be our challenge,” Louisa says, her expression grim. “That horde might be headed west, but that won’t last forever. We’re going to want to be somewhere fortified before their numbers swell in San Francisco and they move east again, away from the water.”
“Some folks have talked about abandoning the journey into the mountain, instead making for Abbottsville or one of the other towns in the foothills,” Jeb says. “It won’t offer any protection if the dead come, but it might be preferable to an ill-fortified trek into the mountains. Telling folks the plan might help make up some minds.”
There are nods of agreement, and I glance back down at the map, trying to put it into the context of what I know about the Golden State. “How far is it, exactly, to Haven?” I ask. Just saying the name of the town out loud makes my heart beat a little faster. Hope or fear, I’m not quite sure. I consider the possibility of getting to Haven and finding my mother and Auntie Aggie, introducing them to Sue and Katherine . . .
I can’t picture it.
There won’t be a single lick of joy for me until I kill Gideon Carr. That’s the promise I made.
And I keep my promises.
“About a hundred miles north to Corning,” Juliet says, pointing to a spot on her hastily drawn map. “Another forty miles hard climb up the mountainside to Haven itself. So about two weeks hard walk, maybe three.”
“What makes you think the mountains will be safe?” Jeb asks. “How long will it be until that horde turns toward the rest of the state?”
Everyone falls silent considering it, because he has the right of it. Eventually the dead will come knocking.
And what then?
“Colder weather will help when it comes,” Juliet finally says. “The snow is brutal and deep up in the Sierra Nevadas. So we really only have to worry about the next few months. Here’s hoping the horde sticks to the lowlands for now. As long as this Haven has strong walls and proactive measures it should be safer than just about anywhere else.”
“Besides,” I say, “nowhere stays safe forever.”
I can feel Katherine’s regard. I don’t look at her, but her gaze fairly burns a hole in my back. She’s most likely thinking the same thing I am.
In less than a month I’ll either find my mother or I will discover that she never made it west at all. And if she and Auntie Aggie are gone, then there will be nothing to keep me from spiraling completely into the darkness.
Not even Katherine.
If one should find themselves hiking through the lush Central Valley of California, be sure to stop by one of the many homesteads and taste the fabulous offerings of California agriculture: oranges, almonds, and a multitude of other fruits native to warmer climes. The Golden State’s harvest is bountiful and plentiful. You will find hospitality aplenty as well.
—General Augustus Redmond, 1875
—KATHERINE—
Chapter 42
Notes on the California Trail
We walk.
It seems to be all we do for a very long time. Juliet warned us, gathering everyone up after our meeting, laying out the challenges, the cost of this endeavor. Many had their concern about the toll such a pace would take on the elderly and young, while others had seemed unsurprised that there was yet another burden to be borne. I do not think there was anyone who, in their hearts, ever believed that the trip to Haven would be easy, but that did not mean it was not upsetting to hear how brutal the journey would truly be in the aftermath of the fall of Sacramento.
And yet, the reality of it pales in comparison to anything we were told.
Each day, we wake as the sun is barely cresting the horizon, over homesteads and fields, mostly fallow this early in the year—that is, if we are lucky enough to even get to sleep the previous night. We break our fast with a meager meal of cold beans and head out, walking as fast as the oxen can be coaxed to go. The trees change from leafy beeches and cottonwoods to towering pines, but the muddy, rut-marked road remains the same.
We are far from the only travelers on the trail. Every day we meet more people, some fleeing the ruin of Sacramento, others from towns that had the misfortune to be in the path of the dead’s march to the sea. Pale-skinned Chinese, brown-skinned Californios, and white people convinced that something better waits for them just around the next bend.
It is the white folks who seem to be taking the new surge of undead the hardest.
“They just came out of nowhere; we were lucky to make it out with our lives,” I overhear a woman say in Abbottsville as we are purchasing what we hope will be enough supplies for our trip into the mountains. Jane dropped her bounty in the first town we had stopped in, some little nothing of a place that didn’t even have a real name, her grisly payday filling the coffers of the wagon train—but that town’s general store’s wares were not sufficient for our needs. Abbottsville’s stores are better stocked, but that, we find, brings its own challenges. The place is filthy with people who believed that they had been safe from the undead plague out here in the west. The cost of the supplies are three times what they should be, but the upcharge is not due to the fact that we are Negroes—it is the demand.
Everyone is heading north, although not for the same reason.
“I heard the Chinese were behind the infection in Sacramento, so they could charge more for their protection teams,” says a white man with a mean look to him and a sidearm I would bet money he has no idea how to use. As I wait to pay for my purchases, the man has the temerity to say to me, “Me and mine are heading up to Oregon. No Chinamen, no darkies. Did you know the Oregon Territory has made Negroes illegal?”
“Pray tell me, sir, how does one make another person illegal? That does not sound very Christian.”
He has no answer for me besides a dark look as he walks off to harass some other poor woman. If I slip an extra prayer into my nightly communion with the Lord that the man should get some comeuppance, well, that is no worse than such a man being allowed to bring children into this world.
But other than a few hostile travelers competing with us for scarce resources, our hardships are caused more by the journey itself than anything else.
Jane purchases new clothes for her and Tomás, warmer clothing that will be necessary for the colder temperatures of the mountains. I watch her spending time with the boy every evening, helping him sound out words in a book of poetry she picked up. The boy works hard to please Jane, and I even catch her smiling at him a time or two as he figures out a passage on his own.
Though I could never have foreseen the eventual benefit it does seem that accompanying Jane on her foolhardy adventure to Sacramento served its purpose. With Gideon in the wind and so many reminders of Jane’s old life around her now, and the possibility of her family being in Haven, she has regained a measure of her old self. I have seen momentary flashes of the friend I knew, warm and kind and jovial, and I know that it is but a matter of time before she quits her quest for vengeance altogether and becomes the girl she once was. Well, if not the Jane McKeene of old, at least a close approximation.
My heart nearly bursts when I think upon it too long, whether from despair or joy, I am not quite sure. But I hope to never again see the cold stare of the woman who shot a man and seconds later began to casually rifle through his pockets, as though his death were as remar
kable as a sneeze.
I pray Jane is finally on the road to once more being her fierce, loyal, frustrating self.
One of the ladies in the wagon train knits Jane a scarf and Tomás socks to wear under his boots, which are a tad too big. When Jane offers to pay her, the woman blushes prettily and waves her off. I think maybe she is a bit sweet on Jane, who does cut a dashing figure in trousers and broadcloth, the falchion strapped across her back and a pistol hanging low on her hip.
Jane has no shortage of admirers on the wagon train.
When we stop in the evenings, exhausted from the days’ labors, Mr. Stevens finds his way to Jane’s side more often than not. She is surprisingly tolerant of his attentions, to the point that I finally inquire, after a week of hard travel, “Jane, you do know the man is courting you, right?”
Jane pauses, mouth agape, a spoonful of beans halfway to her mouth. Whatever manners she might have learned at Miss Preston’s have evaporated; she eats more like a farmhand than an Attendant. She never was much one for etiquette, and the wildness of these lands has only encouraged her to be more herself.
She slowly sets her spoon back on her plate, using the remnant of her left arm to keep the dish from toppling.
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr. Stevens. The man is courting you.”
“Don’t be a ninny, Kate. The man is doing no such thing.”
We sit in a grove a short ways from the well-worn Siskiyou Trail. It is a spot that looks to have served as a refuge for a number of travelers, complete with a firepit and a small surplus of firewood left by the previous visitors. Because of the trials and tribulations during our trip our wagon train now counts only a hundred souls, as people opted to stay in towns along the way. An entire group of our wagon train broke off and decided to head to Eureka, turning west at a fork in the road despite Louisa and Juliet’s counsel. With our hundred we count a meager four wagons. Most of the oxen teams have been doubled up as people sold the beasts off for extra cash. We would make better time with more oxen, but fewer mouths to feed is always a good thing.
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