Auntie Aggie worries about you, too. It’s a cruel world, with cruel people. I hope you haven’t run afoul of too many of them. This world is a place that can eat a girl alive, even smart ones like you.
The building isn’t locked, and the door swings out on silent hinges. My heart pounds in my chest, and there is a part of me, the cowardly, yellow part, that urges me to turn around and scamper on back to bed. But there was too much nonsense in Lily’s words, and my brain hates a mystery the way dogs hate cats, so before I can talk myself out of it I’m descending the stairs.
There ain’t enough light to see properly, but I make my way, hands grazing the walls on either side of me to keep steady. The stairs ain’t dirt like in Mr. Gideon’s laboratory, they’re wood, but everything else reminds me of my first day here. There ain’t no electric lights, just good old kerosene lanterns set into a nook here and there, and I grab one to make my passage easier. At this point my fear of getting caught is a faraway thing, I’m more keen on solving the mystery of the angry townsfolk than anything else.
The stairs empty into a narrow hallway, and the scent of something powerful rotten hits me. I bury my face in the crook of my arm, the stink of me preferable to the stink of whatever’s down here. I’m dog-tired and still too hungry to think straight, so it takes me a long moment before I realize exactly what it is I’m smelling, and the moment I do, that’s when I hear the noises.
Shamblers.
I follow the scent of the dead, the sounds of the moans getting louder, and move cautiously down the tunnel. It ends in a large antechamber, nearly the size of a concert hall. I ain’t sure who or what dug out such a large space, but it must’ve been a pretty impressive undertaking. The ceiling extends far above my head, the light cast down by a cluster of those same electric lamps, conspicuous in their constant glow. But I ain’t nearly half as distracted by the lights as I am the sight that meets my eyes.
Before me is a giant, rolling shambler cage. And in the cage: at least fifty shamblers, running toward an old Negro man sitting in a chair, dozing, the shamblers turning the cage like a giant, metal wheel.
I ain’t even got time for my normal fear response to rise up. I just watch the shamblers turning the entire mess in a circle, my brain trying to make sense of it all. I’ve heard lots of people suppose that shamblers could be useful for labor and such. I read the story of a man who hitched his plow to a team of shamblers and tried to use them to till his field. The problem was that they took off after his boy, catching the kid and eating him and a good part of the rest of his family, before the entire clan set out for the local municipality and turned most of them as well. This was the problem with shamblers: one little slip and everyone you knew was a ravenous monster. It didn’t make much sense to do anything but put them down.
“Isn’t it terrifying?”
I startle at the voice, the fear I couldn’t feel at the sight of the shamblers finally making my heart jump painfully. Mr. Gideon walks out of the shadows, wiping his spectacles on a corner of his untucked shirt. He’s unshaven, and the scruff of beard shadowing his cheeks makes him look tired and just a bit dangerous. It’s an appealing look in a man. But I squash those soft feelings like bugs. I still ain’t got the full measure of him, and if he thinks he’s going to try something I need to be ready for it.
“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.” He waves his hands around before running them through his hair, and there’s something about watching a man talk with that much passion that makes me sit up and take notice.
“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 to excuse myself, but the sheriff has a hell of a left hook, and I go down before I can utter a word.