Of the Blood | ✔️

Twenty-Two

"No!" A long scream howls between my lips, but no one cares.

People shout, running this way and that, as wind screeches between the buildings and pulls at my braids.

Stunned, I step closer to her and a metallic tang pinches my nostrils. The bullet drilled clean through her forehead, the insides of her skull oozing from an unseen hole behind her head. Her bloodshot eyes gaze up at the gray sky as though she's watching the clouds roll past.

My muscles tense. When I take another step closer, an arm pulls me back. "Faith, don't," Thomas warns. "We don't know if she's dead."

No one could survive that.

And then it dawns on me. My eyes snap to his. "You don't think she's —?" I can't say it.

Thomas holds my gaze.

"No..." I shake my head. "She was alive, Thomas. She wasn't well, but she wasn't Undead!"

"But how do we know for sure?"

His question takes me by surprise. I glance back at our teacher, pale and breathless in the road. After Mama passed away, Miss Perkins took a special interest in me and my brother. Making sure Honor had the extra help he needed with his school work, and trusting me to teach the younger kids in class. She asked questions and wanted to know how we were coping, always making certain we were okay. She was so young and had her entire life ahead of her.

And now she's gone.

Just like Mama and Grace. The Miltons. Ms. White and Mr. Dodd. Just like Eliza. So many people I care about have lost their lives. But unlike the others, Miss Perkins was killed in a moment of panic. Of raw and uncontrolled fear.

Anyone acting suspicious or out of line will be shot on the spot.

The constable's announcement rings in my head. What right do we have to play God? Miss Perkins was ill—but Undead? I don't believe it.

A group of men swarm her body like diligent ants, each carrying out an obvious preconceived role. No questions asked, no gesture unsure. As if each one had their task assigned and are executing it as second nature. Shoving twigs and clumps of straw around her body and in between her clothing. Like tinder and kindling.

Tinder and kindling.

My heart skips as I clutch Thomas' sleeve. "What are they doing?"

He doesn't answer.

"Thomas," I say again, "what are they doing?" My voice rises above the panic.

The muscles in his jaw clench. "This is their plan. It's what they came up with after you ran out of the meeting."

Before I can respond, the town blacksmith approaches Miss Perkins. A tin bucket dangles in his grip. He tosses the contents atop her body, drenching her in a colorless liquid. Wisps of brown hair splay across her face like the dingy strings of a mop.

Movement...it's happening all around us. Too many things going on at once. I can't focus.

Footsteps beat against the packed snow, colors rushing past my peripheral vision in flashes of browns and grays. An icy white backdrop. A flicker of black, flapping in the wind. Voices shouting, women crying. More carriages speeding away from South Harbor with what little belongings the families could manage heaped in a pile behind their seats.

The harsh realization nearly knocks me back. My fingers squeeze Thomas' arm. "Please don't tell me they're—"

Before I can get the words out, someone flings a lit matchstick at Miss Perkins' body and an incredible whoosh forces me back, my arms shielding my face.
My teacher disappears behind a wall of orange, the stench of singed hair and burning flesh tinging the icy air. I turn away, coughing, my lungs taking in the surge of smoke. Heat pushes us back even further. Further.