But according to the “experts” there haven’t been any major attacks within the city limits—or even in the county at large—since before the last Rising Day, and I’ve heard enough political speeches to know that letting rich white city folk think that we’ve made even a small part of America safe again is a better stump speech than telling them that we’re still in trouble five years after the Army stopped fighting the dead. Especially when the current political party has been in charge that whole time.
But I don’t say another word to Katherine, just walk past her into the armory. All the girls at Miss Preston’s have their own weapons locker, and I am no exception. I place my scythe into the bracket set into the wall specifically for it. Next to it are my sickles, the blades as curved and sharp as Miss Anderson’s tongue. Beside them are my batons, short wooden clubs with a metal spike in the weighted end and a leather thong at the bottom, a last resort in the case of a melee. The crown jewel of my collection is the well-oiled Remington single-action, the close-range gun of choice for Miss Preston’s girls. I love that six-shooter. According to the newspapers, the Remington single-action is the gunslinger’s pistol of choice, which makes it even more ace.
There is also a rifle near the bottom that’s seen better days, a relic from the War of Northern Aggression and damn near useless. I hate that rifle with a passion, all because it is hands down my worst weapon.
When I come out of the armory, Big Sue and Katherine are gone but Miss Preston’s girl, Ruthie, is waiting for me. “Jane! Miss Preston says you need to come and see her right away.”
I take a deep breath and let it out, praying to Jesus for patience. Ruthie is just a little thing, with big eyes, dark, velvety skin, and braids that are more fluff than braid. I don’t want to take my frustration out on her. Ain’t her fault that it’s pork chop night and I missed lunch because I was taking remedial etiquette training with Miss Anderson. And the remedial training is probably why Miss Preston wants to see me, anyway, so it ain’t like I’m in any hurry to get to the firing line.
“Tell Miss Preston I’ll come see her after supper, okay? I’m so hungry I could eat a whole hog.”
Ruthie shakes her head and latches her tiny hand on my skirt, pulling me in the direction of Miss Preston’s office. “She says you gotta see her now, Jane. So come on. She’s already in a fine fit. You ain’t gonna want to make her mad.”
I reluctantly nod and let Ruthie pull me down the hallway to the main office. The school was once a fancy university, but after the dead rose up, most of the students fled. The building still looks like a school: fine wallpaper, maps of far-off places, writing slates in most of the rooms. The floor is a pale wood polished to a high gloss, and there are carpets so that you hardly even notice the bloodstains here and there.
During the Great Discord, right after the dead began to walk and before the Army finally got the shambler plague under control, the building was empty. Back then people weren’t so much worried about education as they were not having their faces eaten by the undead. But then as the cities were cleared out and recaptured, folks got civilized once again. Shortly thereafter, Congress funded the Negro and Native Reeducation Act and dozens of schools like Miss Preston’s were created in cities as large as Baltimore and as small as Trenton.
The minority party in Congress was against the combat schools from the start, saying that Negroes shouldn’t be the ones to fight the dead—either because we’re too stupid or because it’s inhumane. But once the act was passed and the schools were established, there wasn’t anything they could do, even if they’d wanted to. The federal government is the law of the land, but it doesn’t have much say in how things are truly run within the walls—most cities are small nations unto themselves, with the mayors and their councils in control. And anyway, I don’t much mind the schooling. Those congressmen probably ain’t seen the dead shambling through the fields for years, going after folks, trying to eat them. But I have. If I can get training on how to keep everyone back home at Rose Hill Plantation safe, then why shouldn’t I?
Ruthie pulls me through the main foyer and down into the left wing of the building, to the big office at the end. I get a whiff of meat frying, the smell most likely coming in through the few open windows. The big summer kitchen is out behind the left wing of the house, and I can already imagine the crisp fried deliciousness of Cook’s pork chops, my stomach giving its own noisy approval.
I have half a mind to slip out of Ruthie’s little-girl grip and sprint back down toward the dining room, but she’s already rapping on Miss Preston’s door. A creaky voice calls for us to come in, and Ruthie lets go of my skirt to open the door.
“I brought Jane McKeene, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Ruth. You may run along now and get supper.”
“Yes’m.” Ruthie gives me a pitying look before taking off back down the hall, to a meal that I am beginning to fear I may never get to enjoy.
“Jane McKeene, stop loitering in the doorway like a vagrant and come in.”
I straighten and enter the room, closing the door behind me. Miss Preston’s office looks like the master’s study back at Rose Hill. A massive desk—covered with documents, an inkpot and pen neatly placed in one corner—takes up most of the room.
