My heart pounds, and mentally I’m counting the seconds as they tick past. How much closer is the approaching horde? Have they breached the wall? Have they reached the interior fence? I turn to Bill, who sweats, his shotgun shaking visibly. “You look like a man who wants to live. Please tell the sheriff that ain’t no amount of proselytizing is going to keep that undead horde from overrunning us.”
Bill points the rifle at me. “What’s that mean?” He turns to Bob, who is just as agitated as the sheriff. “What does that even mean?”
“To proselytize means to preach a certain way of thinking, in this case the cause of the Survivalists,” I answer, mentally calculating distance and time. Each moment talking with these fools means we’re a moment closer to death. “Even Daniel Boone couldn’t have survived a horde of shamblers, there ain’t no way we’re going to.”
While I’m talking, I edge closer to Bill. He’s distracted, terrified at the thought of a horde descending on the town, and even Bob looks a mite bit unsure. If I work quickly, I could grab Bob’s rifle and take him out of the equation.
I catch Katherine’s eye, and something about the jut of her chin makes me think that she’s thinking the same thing I am, that maybe she’s also planning a bit of heroics. It’s dark, though, and only a small bit of light filters through the window, so I could be wrong. I raise an eyebrow in Bob’s direction and she twitches her head.
Anyone else, and I would question this reckless act. But this is Katherine. She’s a Miss Preston’s girl, and I trust her with my life.
I grab the barrel of Bob’s gun, spinning around and using my momentum to wrest it from his grip. He falls forward, unbalanced, and I put him in front of me as a shield just as Bill pulls the trigger. Bob falls and I quickly level the shotgun at Bill. This close, the buckshot rips through his chest, sending him to the ground, his rifle clattering to the floor. Two down, one to go.
I rack the shotgun and turn it on the sheriff, who now points his revolver at Katherine’s temple. Her defiant look changes to one of naked fear, and I swear to myself. I’d thought she was planning her own maneuver, but since she still has a gun pointed at her head, maybe not.
“Looks like we got ourselves a bit of a Confederate standoff,” I say, ignoring the voice inside that urges me to hurry.
The sheriff gives me an evil smile. “If you don’t want me to paint the wall with her brains, you’ll put the shotgun down right now.”
“Just shoot the pickaninny!” the pastor yells, lurching to his feet. Spittle flies from his mouth, and the distraction is just what I need to end this whole mess.
Katherine must think so as well. She goes limp in the sheriff’s arms, dragging him off-balance. Sheriff Snyder stumbles forward so I pull the trigger.
As does the sheriff.
The sheriff flies back, but I am frozen in time and space. All of the ruckus outside disappears, and there is only a rushing sound in my ears. I am certain that my recklessness has just killed Katherine.
But then she quickly scrambles to her feet, scooping up Bill’s fallen rifle as she crosses the room to stand next to me. A heavy relief nearly weighs me down; the sheriff’s shot went wide.
Katherine turns around and looks behind her. Blood spatters the side of her dress. “You shot the sheriff.”
“That I did.”
“You tore apart his throat,” she says, voice flat, and I think she might actually be in a bit of a battle haze.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better I was aiming for his face,” I say. I’m still reeling from thinking I’d murdered Katherine and the overwhelming joy I now feel. The last time I felt this way was when Jackson came traipsing through the door. “Miss Folsom was right. An inch really does make a heap of a difference.”
“She was talking about long range with a rifle, Jane.”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
Katherine stares at me, and I give her a small smile. “You just killed a man, and you’re smiling?” she says.
“Well, he wasn’t a very good person. I’m glad he’s dead.”
Katherine looks back at the sheriff’s dead body, lifting one of her fair hands to her cheek, which is dotted with bits of the dead man. “I worry about your immortal soul, Jane.”
I flash her a toothsome grin. “Ain’t you got enough real world problems to keep you busy?”
She starts to laugh, the sound quickly turning into a broken sob. I wrap her up in my arms and squeeze her tight.
“Hey. Hey! It’s okay. You’re okay, and we’re okay. Well, at least until that pack of shamblers gets here.”
Her arms wrap around my middle, returning the embrace. “I know, I just, for a minute, I thought he was going to kill me. I’m not ready to die, Jane.”
“Well, then, I reckon we should get out of here.”
“Negress Jezebel,” comes a wheezing voice from the side of the office. We turn. In my joy at seeing Katherine unharmed I’d completely forgotten about the pastor. He lies on the ground, a hole in his shoulder and blood soaking his jacket. I have my answer as to where the sheriff’s wild shot got to.
“Harlot,” the preacher says, bloody foam flecking his lips. He struggles into a sitting position.
Katherine takes a step forward but I put her to the side, handing her the shotgun I hold. “Why don’t you go see what else the armory has in your size? We still got a whole bunch of dead to face.”
“What about him?” she says, her voice uncertain.
“Oh, I’ll take care of him.”
“But . . .” She drifts off, pushing her lips into a thin line.
I bend down to pick up the sheriff’s revolver. It’s a nice piece, and the heft and weight of it feels just right in my
