Most of the kids, myself included, screamed and ran. I took off for the field of sharpened sticks, knowing that would slow the undead woman down. But when I looked over my shoulder I realized that not everyone was with us.
Joe was standing right where he’d been, not moving, frozen in the path of the dead woman and her gaping maw. The boy had always been a bully, and the thing about bullies is they never learn how to run like the rest of us do. So Joe stood his ground, sharpened stick at the ready, convinced he was going to kill that shambler.
At some point in the woman’s lunge toward Joe he realized that a stick wasn’t much of a weapon against the dead, but it was too late. Joe was about to be shambler chow.
If it hadn’t been for Zeke.
It was Zeke that slammed into Joe, pushing him out of the way of the woman. It was Zeke the woman bit, sinking her teeth deep into his throat. It was Zeke that cried out like a wounded animal, trying for a few precious moments to push the much heavier woman off him as she tore away a great chunk of flesh. And it was Zeke that let out one soft, anguished cry as his life bled out into the dirt of Rose Hill, the sound almost indistinguishable over the noise of the dead Miss Farmer feeding.
“Joe!” I yelled, and the boy looked at me, expression distant and caught somewhere between grief and horror. I ran back to where he’d landed, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him by the hand through the field of sharpened sticks, to the safety of Rose Hill.
As we ran back we passed the patrol coming to put down the dead. I didn’t stay to watch; I’d seen enough carnage for one day. They say when they got there Miss Farmer had started on Zeke’s face, and that two of the men vomited before they even got to putting her down and driving a nail into Zeke’s head so he wouldn’t come back.
Momma gave Zeke a proper burning, and gave Mr. Isaac and Auntie Evelyn his ashes. Joe ran off a few years later, presumably to one of the combat schools, and so their heartbreak was complete, Auntie Aggie clucking her tongue and saying, “Told you them twins was an ill omen.”
It took me a long time before I left the safety of the main house, and I never ventured to the borders of Rose Hill again, not until I came to Miss Preston’s years later. I learned two valuable lessons that day.
One: the dead will take everything you love. You have to end them before they can end you. That’s exactly what I aim to do.
And two: the person poking the dead ain’t always the one paying for it. In fact, most times, it’s the ones minding their own business who suffer.
That’s a problem I still don’t have an answer for yet.
One of the finest parts of attending Miss Preston’s is all the friends I’ve made. Momma, you would not believe the camaraderie and esprit de corps in these hallowed halls.
Chapter 4In Which I Dodge Unwanted Advances and Engage in a Bit of Blackmail
I’m staring at the scenery outside the window of the pony, brain tangled in bloody memories and a few regrets, when Miss Duncan asks me, “So, Jane, what do you think?”
I blink and sit up, suddenly quite conscious of the two pairs of eyes on me. “I’m sorry, Miss Duncan, I wasn’t listening. What are my thoughts on what exactly?”
Miss Duncan gives me a polite smile. “On the reason behind the dead rising. Of course, we’ve all heard preachers insisting that it’s our sins, of one sort or another, that have caused this plague upon our soil. But the country’s best minds have been trying to ascertain a scientific basis, and they are quite divided on the cause and the reasoning behind it. I’m curious as to what you think.”
I clear my throat and nod. I’m wondering why science is a better discussion topic than politics, but I don’t say anything because that would be entirely too cheeky. Miss Duncan is a strange one, always talking to Negroes like she cares what they have to say. But I like her well enough, so I indulge her question.
“Well, I have been read—hearing some folks talk on the subject, and I think it’s a tiny little critter that causes the infection. You know, like the same thing that makes milk sour.”
If Miss Duncan noticed my near-admission to having gotten my hands on a medical journal, she doesn’t show it. Meanwhile, Katherine stares at me with her mouth slightly agape. “A tiny creature, inside of the dead. What, like a mouse?”
I shake my head, feeling agitated and frustrated. “No, not like a mouse. Smaller. Like, too small to be seen with your eye. Microscopic. I read an article in the evening post a few weeks ago about a man named Joseph Lister over in England. See, he had a whole bunch of patients dying from infections, so he started sterilizing his surgical equipment with alcohol—”
Katherine frowns. “So now you’re saying that we should all drink ourselves stupid to avoid being turned into one of the restless dead?”
“No, not like that. The alcohol kills the tiny critters, like cleaning a mess up with soap.” Both Miss Duncan and Katherine are staring at me like I’m speaking in tongues. I let out a breath and fall back onto the unyielding seat. “Never mind,” I mutter.
This always happens when I start talking about complicated stuff with people. In my head the ideas are so clear and make perfect sense, but when the words come out they’re a mess. They might be looking at me like I’m insane, but the stuff I’m saying is true. That’s the thing with me. Once I read something, I know it forever. Whether I’m supposed to be
