The thing about a shambler’s cage is that it ain’t designed to hold anything long-term. When you set those traps up you’re supposed to hide somewhere nearby, so you can put the dead down real quick. Unfortunately Professor Ghering and his Survivalist cronies thought they were smarter than the average foot patrol.
So I shouldn’t be surprised when the iron lock finally breaks loose, releasing three blood-crazed shamblers.
What is left of the departing crowd goes frantic. People nearest the stage shout in alarm and begin shoving. Their fear draws the attention of the shamblers, and one of them jumps off the raised platform, right down into the seats.
I’m quicker on the draw, and once I get a bead on the shambler, I put him down with a head shot. But the crowd’s already spooked. I ain’t got time to worry about a bunch of dandies running for their lives.
Shamblers ain’t like normal people, but they do have an eerie ability to recognize a threat when they see it. Putting down their hunting buddy effectively made me a target, and when the two remaining shamblers turn toward me, slack mouths open in a hungry growl, I know I’m in for it.
They stalk toward me across the stage. Inside, my heart is pounding, my blood thrumming in my ears as the fear response urges me to run run run. But I ain’t no coward. I’ve got two shots left. I just need to make them count.
I line up my sights on the bigger shambler and squeeze the trigger. The revolver recoils, smoke filling the air. He drops and I take aim at the last one. She opens her mouth wide, growling low in her throat. She’s fresh dead, so she doesn’t have the blackened saliva that so many of the older ones do. Still, drool runs down her chin and the front of her calico dress. I feel bad for her. She wasn’t rich in life, her clothing belying her poverty, and even her death has been insulting. Changed into a shambler, locked up in a cage, paraded onstage. That ain’t a fitting end for anyone.
I think through all of this in the few heartbeats between lining up my shot and pulling the trigger.
Click. Empty.
Quickly I count through my shots. One in Othello. Two in the professor. One in the jumper, and another in the other male. That’s only five.
And one in the air to get everyone’s attention, Jane, you damn fool.
The shambler ain’t waiting for me to figure out what happened to my last bullet. She vaults toward me, a murderous blur set on a collision course with disaster. I swear—under my breath because a lady’s Attendant never curses aloud—and brace myself for impact.
A shot rings out, and I turn to see an Attendant in the middle of the aisle, her hands shaking. Behind her is a crumpled heap of crinolines and lace. The Attendant’s charge has passed out, and the woman’s serving girl is trying to alternately drag her or revive her with smelling salts while the Attendant provides a distraction.
Unfortunately the Attendant is providing the wrong kind of spectacle, because the shambler lurches off the stage and after the trio in the aisle. I launch myself off after her.
The shambler runs up the aisle toward the prone woman, who I can see now is the mayor’s wife. The serving girl looks up, her eyes round as saucers as the shambler bears down on her.
“Shoot it!” I shout to the Attendant in the aisle, but she drops her sidearm and runs, the girl with the smelling salts close behind. Needless to say, neither of them were ever Miss Preston’s girls.
“Damn it to hell,” I yell, this time not quite able to keep the language to myself. The shambler is close enough to Mrs. Carr to get a good bite out of her, and I decide to do the stupidest thing ever.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo, catch a shambler by the toe.
I dive at the dead woman, grabbing her one-handed by the ankle. She goes down, flat on her belly, only a few inches away from the unconscious woman. The shambler kicks out, her heel catching me in the mouth and splitting my lip. I grunt and my grip slips. She tries to drag herself toward Mrs. Carr, and I grab the shambler’s ankle again with both hands and haul her back, groaning as I climb to my feet.
The dead woman lets loose a sound somewhere between frustration and fury. She twists around in my grip, lunging for me. The woman is faster than I expect, and I take a stumbling step back. My feet tangle in my skirts and I fall, the shambler following.
I throw up my hands, using my forearms to block the weight of her torso before she can take a bite out of my face. She claws at me as I hold her back, my hands locked around her throat. I push her up and away, locking my elbows and hiding my face in my shoulder, trying to avoid her scrabbling hands. She pulls at the brim of Katherine’s bonnet, more interested in yanking my face to her teeth than in freeing herself. I’m trying to figure out how to get her off of me when there’s a loud report and something cold and wet splashes on my face.
The shambler goes limp and I push her to the side, climbing to my feet as I wipe blood and the shambler’s brains off of my cheek. I look around to see who just saved my bacon, and
