“Electricity was at the heart of my vision,” he continued. “It would keep the town safe, and perform labor. Electrified fences. Electrical appliances to wash clothing, to cook food. The war ended slavery; electricity could lay the foundation for an automated settlement where we could continue the march toward a fair and equal society. I worked for a time with Mr. Edison in his compound in Menlo Park; when I returned home to Baltimore, I told my father about my ideas and he got the notion of me going west to improve some of the frontier towns. He convinced me to discuss the plan with a small group of his political allies. I needed financing, and it was my hope that they might see the potential in the idea. They did, and my father took steps to put it in action. But when I arrived here, it was nothing like what I had laid out.” He finally stopped pacing and sat down. “My idea was to locate a town near a natural resource to run the generators: a river, a stream, coal veins. This area has no viable power source, but they had already established the foundations of the settlement, with dozens of people living here.”
I think back to the night of Mayor Carr’s dinner party—the electric lights on his house, the newspaperman who was mysteriously bitten. “Hence, that contraption I just saw back there.”
Mr. Gideon sits next to me on the bench and pulls a piece of paper and some charcoal toward him. He sketches out a drawing. “It’s a simple Faraday machine. The wheel turns, making the magnets shift, and causes power to flow down the wires. In an effort to keep the town from collapsing, I retrofit the generator to run on physical labor. The undead never tire; they don’t need much in the way of sustenance to maintain locomotion, they need only be replaced every once in a while . . .” He grimaces as I give him a look. “I’ll admit it’s not one of my best ideas. It runs the lights, and that’s about all, to be honest. The idea was to have the electricity power a barrier fence, much more deadly and effective than bobbed wire or even the brick wall. Something that would last much longer, and keep undead out of a large area. But the single generator could never power a viable perimeter fence, if we even had the manpower to finish building one. So, there are electric lights, and a wall to keep the deathless out. The town looks pretty, but in the meantime, we have the same society we did back east, one that subjugates and kills more than half its population to guard the smaller portion. What is the point of that? How is this progress?”
I know why the tinkerer is frustrated, but I don’t have an answer to his question, and just shake my head.
He continues. “So, here we are. Shamblers—I mean, the undead—are generating the electricity in the town, such as it is. We might be able to create more power if we could build more generators and improve the electrical infrastructure, but the Negroes and roughnecks have their hands full maintaining the barrier, and the Snyders refuse to make the whites within town work on the fence. They just waste their time having tea and drinking.”
I frown. “Mr. Gideon, I beg your pardon, but this all makes absolutely no sense. Shamblers, here, within the walls?”
He leans forward, a shine in his eyes that I’m pretty sure ain’t entirely from the electric lights. “With my help, they’ve turned this place into a Survivalist nightmare. They believe the undead, like the Negro, were put here to serve whites, and that it’s our place to guide, but not to labor. Meanwhile, the Survivalist drovers and laborers are tired of being forced to tend the fields. They believe it should be their turn to enjoy the good life. But the interior fence isn’t even finished, and it’s only the patrols that are keeping us from being overrun.”
“And all the people over there in the town? The fancy ones? They’re Survivalists, too?”
Mr. Gideon leans back suddenly, his expression shuttering. “Not all of them. But that’s all I’m going to say about that, Miss McKeene. The hour is getting late, and while I worry for the future of Summerland, it isn’t going to fall tomorrow. You should get back to your bed before the sheriff and his boys finish sleeping off last night’s revelry.”
I climb to my feet, clutching the jar of peaches. “Thank you for the food.”
“Don’t mention it. The town is headed for a reckoning, and I have a feeling things are going to get worse before they get better.”
I hesitate a moment before I reach into my waistband. Tom Sawyer was the last gift Jackson ever gave me, and I haven’t finished the book just yet. But I hate owing anyone a debt. And who knows, maybe if everything works out, I can find myself another copy. “Here. For the peaches.”
Mr. Gideon takes the book uncertainly, turning it over in his hands. “I . . . thank you.”
“Sweet dreams, Mr. Gideon,” I say over my shoulder as I climb the stairs.
“Sweet dreams, Jane,” he says, his voice far away.
I let myself out of the lab and slip past the outhouses and the abandoned hotel. The sun is just starting to hint at its rise over the horizon to the east, but it’s still mostly dark, and I’m almost to the saloon when I hear the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking.
“Well, hello there, Jane,” Sheriff Snyder drawls. He stands just a few feet behind me, grinning, and I’m once again reminded of the stories I’ve heard of alligators. “I do believe you are breaking curfew.”
I open my mouth to come up with some story
