“Relax, Miss McKeene. I’m not the one you need to fear.”
“Funny how the ones that turn on you always say something like that.”
A smile ghosts across his lips before disappearing. “True enough. Here, let me show you how this works.”
“What makes you think I care?”
He laughs a little. “You’re smart. Your brain has been putting facts together since you got here, whether you realize it or not. And since you’re here, you might as well learn every single last one of this town’s terrible secrets.”
He’s right. A strong curiosity has always been one of my flaws. I nod, and my stomach chooses that moment to rumble loudly. My face heats and Mr. Gideon’s eyes soften. “I do believe I may have some canned peaches somewhere down here as well. Follow me.”
He walks toward the back of the room, past the giant shambler wheel. The dead in the cage stop walking for a moment, their yellow eyes fixating on us instead. But the cage has enough momentum that the few who are distracted lose their balance and fall down, their compatriots trampling them as the whole contraption keeps turning. One of the shamblers gets caught underfoot the wrong way, and its head is crushed by the others. It doesn’t move after that, the body flopping at the bottom of the wheel while the whole thing keeps turning. I’m sure it’s all some kind of metaphor, but I’m too tired and hungry to figure out what for. The rest of the fallen shamblers eventually regain their footing, and they all turn their attention back to the old man sleeping in the chair.
I follow Mr. Gideon down another hallway for quite some time, the sound of our breathing loud in the enclosed space. This hallway is lit by electric lights, and I take the time to watch Mr. Gideon. He walks stiffly, but his limp is gone.
“What happened to your limp? Was it an affectation, or the real thing?”
Mr. Gideon laughs. “You don’t mince words much, do you?”
“I find that my lot in life has less to do with what I say than who I am,” I answer.
He nods and looses a long sigh. “I can see how that would be true. Well, I have a mechanical brace for my leg. It helps me walk, but it’s tiresome, so I don’t wear it all of the time. Plus, the limp makes the sheriff think I’m weak, and to speak truthfully, I prefer him underestimating me.”
“You don’t like him much, either, huh?”
“The man is a monster. And that apple didn’t tumble far from the tree.” I’m surprised by the vehemence in his voice. We fall silent after that.
The hallway eventually ends, and I’m surprised to find us back in Mr. Gideon’s lab. “These tunnels are one giant rabbit warren,” I murmur.
“Yes, they are. I use that tunnel to get back and forth from town. It’s actually a more direct route than the road. It also helps me hide my movements from the sheriff.” There’s a metal gate separating the hallway from the lab, and Mr. Gideon unlocks it with a key around his neck. He holds the gate open until I pass through, and then secures it behind me. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, and I suddenly feel very nervous being alone with him. It ain’t just that it’s improper, which it is, but the last time I was alone with a boy was Jackson back in the day, and despite my fearsome predicament a wave of loneliness overwhelms me.
I miss my momma and Auntie Aggie, and Big Sue back in Baltimore. I miss Jackson and his stupid plans and little Ruthie and her nothing-but-fluff braids. I miss Miss Duncan and her make-your-arms-mush scythe drills. I even miss Katherine, which I never thought I’d be saying.
Mostly, I miss being hopeful. There ain’t a lick of hope in Summerland from what I can see, despite the advertising, and the drudgery of it all is enough to make a girl just lay down and die.
I collapse on a long bench before a table a good distance away from the lab equipment. Mr. Gideon goes to a cabinet and removes a jar, returning to the table and sitting on the matching bench on the other side.
“Here. I’m afraid I don’t have a fork, but at least they’re tasty. My mother sends them along, since we haven’t gotten around to planting trees yet out here.” Mr. Gideon slides a jar of peaches across the table at me, and I pick up the Ball jar and twist off the two-piece lid. The scent of the peaches hits me, and I dig in with my fingers, pulling out a peach slice and shoving it in my mouth. It’s sweet and juicy, and I’ve eaten half the jar before I remember my manners enough to offer Mr. Gideon some.
He waves me away with a smile. “I’m good, thank you. Our rations haven’t been cut like yours have.”
I think about Ida, back up in the bedroom, and I refasten the lid, saving the other half of the jar for her. She’s been kinder to me than anyone else here, mostly keeping me out of trouble, and it’s the least I can do for her.
“So,” I say, once I’ve wiped my fingers on the front of my raggedy shirt, “tell me about them shamblers you’re keeping in that cage.”
Mr. Gideon sighs heavily and sits down. “Well, first of all, this wasn’t of my making. I had an idea, and the result is a gross perversion of it.”
“So what was your idea, then?”
“Technology! Innovation! A modernized state in which all Americans—Negroes, whites, Indians—could live together.” He jumps to his feet and begins pacing. “Summerland was supposed to be a shining beacon of hope, a noble Egalitarian vision for the future, a place to carve out a new idea of what our country could become, risen from the ashes of oppression and death.”
