I swallow a laugh. She has no idea.
I roll my shoulders a couple of times, trying to loosen up the suddenly tense muscles. Then I walk into the dark.
The windows only let in a tiny bit of the moonlight, so it’s hard to see anything. I make out a table, a long cold stove, a few chairs around a nearby fireplace. But there’s no one in the room, dead or otherwise.
“There’s a lamp on the table,” Jackson says, his voice close to my ear. It takes everything I have not to jump.
“Well, light it. I can’t see a damn thing in this gloom.”
“Jane, language,” Katherine calls from somewhere behind me.
Jackson walks over to the table and lights the oil lamp. Once it’s turned up it’s easy to see that the interior of the house is completely undisturbed. There ain’t even a dirty dish in the sink. If their disappearance was the work of shamblers, they were the tidiest shamblers I’ve ever heard of.
“You sure Lily didn’t mention anything about them all heading somewhere?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to my question.
Jackson shakes his head. “Their iron pony is still in the barn, stocked full of coal. And look.” He gestures to the wall where a portrait of the family hangs—Mr. and Mrs. Spencer and their two little ones, their pale faces staring out at us. If they’d picked up and left, they most definitely would’ve taken the family photo.
Katherine drags a finger across the ledge of a china hutch. “They’ve been gone for a while. Either that or Mrs. Spencer is an inadequate housekeeper,” she says, holding up a dusty finger. “Why was your sister staying with them, anyway?”
Jackson’s jaw tightens, and I answer for him. “Lily was about to turn twelve.”
What Katherine knows—what we all know—is that the Negro and Native Reeducation Act mandates that at twelve years old all Negroes, and any Indians living in a protectorate, must enroll in a combat school “for the betterment of themselves and of society.” The argument went that we benefitted from compulsory education, as it provides a livelihood for formerly enslaved, who couldn’t find gainful employment after the war. Whites, therefore, were excluded from the law, although some went to the combat schools of their own accord, since it was good to know how to protect one’s self in these dangerous times. Still, there’s a difference between an education officer showing up with a group of armed men and carrying someone off, and their enrolling in a school on their own.
“Lily is fair,” Jackson says. “She’s passing, like you, Katherine. I figured if she lived with a white family, the education officers would leave her alone. The Spencers are Egalitarians, and they don’t truck with the Survivalists and all their nonsense about Negroes being inferior.” Jackson sits heavily in one of the chairs. “I just wanted to keep her safe.” There’s so much heartache in his voice that I almost go to him, almost offer what little comfort I can. But that ain’t my place anymore, and I swallow my concern like a bitter draught.
That’s when a chorus of bells sounds from out behind the house, and I quickly extinguish the lantern.
Something tripped an alarm.
Jackson is moving toward the back of the house, and Katherine peers out the window. “There are people approaching.” She turns around, her expression indistinguishable in the dark. “They don’t look like the dead.”
I join her at the window, and she’s right. A lantern swings back and forth in the night, revealing at least three people. “Those ain’t shamblers, but I’m betting they’re trouble nonetheless.”
Jackson waves us back toward the bedroom. “The Spencers have a shamblers’ hole. This way.”
We hurry through the house. In the windowless rear bedroom he flips back the rug, revealing a small door in the floor. He pulls it up and we tumble down into the darkness. I feel around, moving forward until my hands brush against a dirt wall. I half expect to kick something soft and yielding in the dark until Red Jack whispers, “They ain’t down here. This is the first place I checked when I couldn’t find them.”
I’m wondering why Jackson dragged us out here in the middle of the night if he’s already checked the house thoroughly. But there’s no time to ask him now. He pulls the trapdoor shut, and the small space is loud with the sound of our breathing. A shamblers’ hole is a last resort when a homestead gets overrun. Sometimes hiding out away from the dead for an hour or so can mean the difference between life and undeath.
The Spencers’ hole was built for a family, so there’s more than enough room to move around. I take deep breaths and force my heart to slow, Jackson and Katherine doing the same. Less than a dozen breaths later the sound of boots on the wooden porch echoes through the house, along with voices.
For a moment, I think maybe this is it. Maybe this is my final moment, the scene that leads to my death. But the penny in the hollow of my throat is warm to the touch, and I know that this ain’t the end. When it’s time for me to die that penny will be cold, of that I have no doubt.
The realization is calming, and my heart finally settles down. Someone grabs my hand in the dark and squeezes. I ain’t sure whose hand it is, but I squeeze back anyway. Not because I’m scared, but because it just seems like the right thing to do.
The boots pause for several long moments before advancing into the house. Once inside, it’s a lot easier to decipher what the voices are saying.
“I saw a light on in here. I know I did.” The boots sound closer, walking toward us. They pause over our heads.
“I didn’t see anything. You sure you aren’t imagining things? You’ve been skittish ever since we left. Even tripped over that warning alarm like
