“Seems a might cowardly to use your dead mother for cover, doesn’t it?”
From the east bank, about seventy-five feet off, Miss Sadie shouted to them. “I just need a minute to cast my spell. Try to hold them off.”
She knelt on the ground with her back toward them so they couldn’t see what she did with her hands.
“What kind of spell is she casting?” Charles asked.
“That’s what I asked a few minutes back,” Thomas said, “but no one else seemed worried about it.”
The zombies and horses slowed to a halt at the edge of the bridge. Scrub oak lined the banks on both sides of the road. Each of the zombies wore a wide hat similar to Thomas’s, and shadows covered their faces. They wore gloves, too. Maybe to keep their fingers from falling off. Brady had a rifle slung across his saddle and Farrell had two pistols out and aimed at the Bakers. Thomas wasn’t certain that a pistol could do much good at that distance.
“Should I shoot them?” Franky said.
He held the rifle up against his shoulder, with the barrel hanging over the wagon, over Mama. Thomas couldn’t remember ever seeing Franky shoot a gun. Could his aim possibly be any good? Eli stood next to Franky, his rifle also ready.
“We just want Miss Sadie,” Mr. Brady shouted over the distance. The sound of rushing water almost swallowed his English accent. “We don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“I’m pregnant!” Clara May said. Fear glinted in her eyes. Or maybe it was the start of tears.
“Why in the blazes do they care about that?” Charles said.
She stuck her lips out in a pout. “They don’t want to hurt a woman’s unborn child, now do they?”
“I doubt they care,” Charles said. “Not any more than I do.”
Clara May gave him an offended look, but before she could respond, a shot rang out. Eli stumbled a step back as the barrel of his gun bucked upward.
Thomas looked down the bridge to see where the bullet landed. As near as he could tell, it didn’t hit any of the zombies, horses, Mr. Brady, or Farrell. In fact, other than Brady and Farrell dismounting and standing behind the zombies, the group didn’t even really respond to the shot, so the bullet must not have passed even close enough for them to hear it. Not even a cloud of dust rose from the ground nearby.
Great. Eli couldn’t even shoot the ground. They were as good as dead if things turned ugly. And how could they not?
Stanley, frightened by the shot, huddled around Thomas’s leg.
“My fiancé’s is with holy child!” Eli shouted as he reloaded. “You’d best keep your distance!” He turned back to the group, face flushed with excitement. “I have never shot a man before. Or a zombie.”
“Have you ever shot a gun?” Thomas said.
Finished reloading, Eli nodded and brought the barrel back up. “Why, of course. I shot once when I was ten.”
“That’s it?”
“Papa never let me after that. Said I was dangerous.” He flashed a grin at Thomas. “But I like the shooting. It puts fire in my veins.”
“Almost ready!” Miss Sadie shouted from the east bank. “Only another moment.”
“Now don’t be shooting at us,” Brady shouted. He could barely be seen where he hid behind the zombies. “No one has to get hurt. We don’t have to take her back by force.”
“I’m afraid you do,” Papa shouted. “We don’t give anything to any zombie raisers. Not while God still lives!”
He took a step to the side, to stand directly behind the wheel, and crouched just a little, so that not even the top of his head poked over the wagon boards.
Another shot registered, but this time from the group of zombies. A bullet plunked into the far side of the wagon. Thomas ducked low behind the wagon—which still left his legs exposed, but he couldn’t help that—and so did everyone else, except for Franky and Eli.
Both of their guns went off. This time Franky stumbled a few steps, although Eli managed to keep his feet. They crouched and began to reload. Thomas’s ears rang. In rapid succession, another five shots came from the far end of the bridge, three of which hit the wagon. One whizzed by overhead. The mules bawled in fright, but didn’t move—perhaps because Papa still held their reins, but perhaps because they saw that any movement forward or backward would send them into the river. They might have been better off, there, than with bullets flying around them. Either way, Thomas respected their ability to stay still.
Above the noise, another sound arose from the east bank, from where Miss Sadie knelt. In was the same sound of wind they’d heard back at the house only a few hours before, when Charles had cast his spell. Only this time it wasn’t contained inside a house, and so the noise spread out more, didn’t sound as loud—certainly not as loud as the river.
Eli stood up and took aim.
“Zombies coming up the bridge!” he said.
His gun went off.
Thomas chanced a look up. The zombies had started to run up the bridge. They moved fast. It would only take them a few seconds to reach the wagon. They’d come close enough that Thomas could see their faces: gray things, with all the usual eyeballs and lips and noses. They must not have been very old zombies, since nothing had fallen off their faces.
“You ready, Thomas?” Charles said.
His eyes gaped, and he licked his lips. He held his sword with the point up.
Miss Sadie stood up and lifted one hand high over her head, spinning a white ribbon as she did. The ribbon burned at the bottom end. When she reached her full height, another sound of wind arose, but this time it actually brought force with it.
“Holy blessing sent by the heavens and the God that lives in them!” Charles swore. “What is she doing?”
Cries of shock surrounded Thomas. He looked past the wagon.
A funnel of wind, its shape visible only because of the dust it picked up, formed among the trees and shrubs along the river bank, not thirty feet downstream from Brady and Farrell. The trees and bushes whipped at the gust’s strength. Branches whistled and leaves tore away.
The funnel grew to seventy or eighty feet tall, and thirty feet wide at the top. It twisted and bent all up and down its entire length, like it had half a dozen joints. It howled and moved along the bank, toward Brady and Farrell. They shouted and motioned at the zombies to get back off the bridge. But the torrent ate their words.
“Well,” Franky said. “Ain’t that something?”
The sound of the tornado consumed everything. The wind surrounding the funnel pulled water up from the river on one side, and dirt from the other, and mixed them to create a muddy mist over the bridge. It slapped Thomas so that he could barely keep his eyes open. Clara May began to wail. Eli dropped his rifle onto the bridge so he could comfort her.
The zombies continued to close in on the Bakers.
Charles slid around the rear of the wagon, to the opposite side. He brandished his sword at the zombies.
The mules bawled. Stanley ran for the bank where Miss Sadie stood. Concentration painted her face. She spun the ribbon in one hand, although the fire had moved halfway up its length. She stepped backward, and as she did, the tornado and its whirling leaves, water, and mud moved across the bank, toward the bridge. Farrell and Brady had turned their horses and started to race away, up the hill to the west.
“She’ll kill us all!” Papa said, barely audible over the torrent. “If it hits the bridge, it’ll rip the wood apart!”
“Get off the bridge!” Thomas shouted. He got a mouthful of mud and a leaf, and spat it out. “Get off the bridge!”
Papa, Eli, and Clara May bolted for the shore. Franky began to help the frantic mules, but they were as good as dead. They couldn’t be helped, anymore.
“Leave them!” Thomas said.
He pulled on Franky’s shoulder. His hat flew off in the gale. He didn’t even try to grab it. Pity he would lose it. It had that red cloth Mama had given him.
“They’re scared!” Franky said.
On the o
ther side of the wagon, Charles leaped at the front-most zombie, swinging the sword horizontally. The zombie dodged and Charles’s blow flew wide. The monster dove at him, fingers extended like claws, teeth bared.
A flash of regret hit Thomas. Charles would die. He couldn’t stand against seven zombies. The emotion surprised Thomas. He’d never expected to feel regret in relation to Charles. He’d always thought he would welcome his twin’s demise.
The zombie clawed Charles in the side of the head. Its fingernails raked across the side of his face. He reeled to one side and toppled over the edge of the bridge toward the churning water.
The twister touched the base of the bridge and began to move up it, toward the wagon. The wood creaked and groaned. Boards began to fly up and off, becoming projectiles in the spinning mass.
“Come on, Franky!” Thomas shouted.
Everything was wet and slippery. The twister danced up the bridge, moving so fast that in two seconds it would reach him. Halfway toward the west bank, one of the primary horizontal support beams cracked and shifted. The entire bridge shook. The zombies began to climb over and around and under the wagon. Franky continued to try and pull the mules, but fear had rooted them into place. Papa and Eli and Clara May approached the far end of the bridge. Thomas tried to pick Franky up, to carry him away.
But the tornado shredded the bridge.
I done learned that the choices you make bind you. They remove your options and tie you up right tight with consequences. Ain’t nothing I ever did that didn’t only tighten the noose around my neck.
Chapter 16: Human, once
Thomas had never felt anything like it. He hoped to never again.
Utter chaos. No control. Imminent death.
The world lifted and spun. His body did the same. His stomach followed suit. He lost his grip on Franky and cried out, but didn’t hear himself over the snapping wood, roaring wind, screaming mules, and wailing zombies. He closed his eyes and lifted his arms to protect his head from projectiles. The wind had already torn his hat off of his head. He couldn’t identify up or down. Everything rotated across and all around.
The tornado had him in its grip. That had to be it. Nothing else could explain the ungodly sensation. The wind pulled his arms from around his head, and twisted them and his legs in every imaginable unnatural direction. He didn’t dare open his eyes for all the tiny particles that pelted his face.
Where was Franky? How did he fare?
Thomas hit the water.
It wasn’t a graceful dive. More like a twisted back flop. Pain shot up his spine. He began to breathe deep, to cry out in agony.
He went under. Water filled his mouth and he coughed it out. All around him, things rushed by. He felt their waves or their mass as they brushed by him. Something knocked him in the ribs, turning him. Then something else bludgeoned him in the back. He flailed against the rushing in his ears, searching for the surface. He hadn’t had the opportunity to take a good breath before going under. Usually, he could stay under water for more than a minute, but already he pined for air.
He swam in the direction he thought was up and his head whacked straight into a piece of wood. But he hardly noticed the pain, anymore. He needed to breathe.
Whatever he’d hit flowed downriver, for he went up again, and this time his face crested the surface. As he inhaled, he opened his eyes just in time to see a beam coming right at his face. He could only turn his head so that the beam struck him across the cheek and ear, instead of right in the nose.
His vision turned black as he went under again, head ringing. But this time he came up only after a moment, scanning the surface of the water for more debris. None threatened him, but the water pulled him along, downriver. Trees and bushes sped by on the shores.
The tornado had disappeared. The air had again fallen still. The blue sky gave no hint of the previous chaos. Somewhere upriver, his family along the eastern shore shouted, but he couldn’t see them. Other debris continued to float by, and he had to swim hard to dodge several pieces of wood, one of which was the wagon’s wheel. The impact of hitting the water must have shattered the vehicle. The mules couldn’t possibly have survived.
But what about Franky? What about the others who hadn’t quite made it across the bridge? And Charles?
Nearby, water sprayed up and around as someone burst upward out of the water. For a second Thomas couldn’t see who it was.
“Franky!” he shouted. “Charles!”
The water settled around the person, revealing a desiccated face with eyes sunk deep and lips as thin as a pencil line. The zombie spotted him, and with a grunt began to swim toward him.
His arms and legs ached, and so did his back and head. His entire body protested, but he didn’t care. He swam away from the zombie, toward the east bank. He swam with everything he could, not looking back as he dodged a stray board.
About a dozen feet from the shore, the zombie grasped at his ankle. He kicked hard, and struck the zombie’s hands away. He thought he heard the crack of finger bones. But the zombie, unable to feel pain or weariness, swam harder and faster, and in another few seconds grabbed for Thomas’s legs with both hands.
Thomas turned onto his back, pulled his legs up to his chest. For an instant, he saw that face: gray skin tight against the facial bones, nose and ears shriveled, wispy patches of hair—but mostly baldness and splotches of black skin, and eyeballs at least an inch deep in the skull. In the next instant, he screamed. And kicked.
His boots connected with the zombie’s face. With a crunch, the skull collapsed. The zombie flailed away. An odd gurgle escaped its lips. Not swimming, it was pulled by the river.
Thomas kicked his legs and swam for the shore. His heart pounded. He kept his eyes on the zombie, which began to swim again, this time for the bank as the current pulled it further downriver. The ground came up fast enough that Thomas could touch the squishy river bottom, and he pulled himself up onto the riverbank.
He knelt on all fours, panting, resisting the urge to collapse. The zombie crawled ashore thirty feet downriver. Even with its face completely unrecognizable, it still moved with ease. That kind of injury would’ve killed a person. It swiveled its head from side to side, so Thomas saw that one eye socket hadn’t collapsed: the creature could still see.
And it spotted him.
It didn’t pause. Didn’t hesitate. It stood and came at him. Its jaw had collapsed, and so its roar came out as a dull moan. It wore clothes like a man’s: simple pants and a shirt with three buttons at the collar. The gray skin on its arms had spots of black, like on the top of its head.
Every inch of Thomas’s body hurt as he stood to meet the zombie. He couldn’t move left, into the trees, or right, into the water. Instead he got as solid a footing as he could on the rocky bank, and braced himself for the impact.
The creature dove into him. Thomas ducked under the grasping fingers, turning his shoulder so it caught the zombie in the chest. Its sternum cracked. Thomas straightened his legs and heaved the zombie over his shoulder. The putrid smell of rotten flesh filled his head.
They landed on the riverbank, Thomas’s back on the zombie’s face. But it pushed Thomas off, into the shallow water, and Thomas flailed in an effort to strike it in the face. If he could get rid of that one good eye, he’d have a huge advantage.
They found their feet at the same time. Thomas stood in the shallow water, back to the river, and the zombie on the rocky riverbank. It attacked. Thomas ducked under the claws. He lost his balance as the zombie splashed into the water. To keep from falling, he had to place a hand down on a rock the size of two fists. The stone fit his palm. He straightened, lifting the rock just as the zombie came back at him. This time, instead of ducking, he swung the rock at the its good eye.
It connected, and its head collapsed further with a crack. The zombie reeled away, moaning. It stumbled into the shallow water, but managed to keep its feet. Unable to see, it flailed about, swinging its arms in every direction, lunging
this way and that. It looked pitiful, and Thomas almost felt compassion for it as he backed away, up against the bushes, panting and aching.
This thing had been human once. Maybe it still was, to a degree.
“Thomas!”
He turned upriver to the voice. Charles ran down the bank, carrying his sword.
Relief flooded Thomas: Charles had survived the tornado and river. Four gashes dripped blood down his cheek, where the zombie had struck him, knocking him off of the bridge.
Charles reached Thomas in a moment, but didn’t stop or slow. Instead, he leaped at the zombie, swinging the sword at its neck. Thomas didn’t want to watch, so turned away.
He looked back after a few seconds. The zombie’s headless body had fallen into the edge of the river. With a shove of his boot, Charles pushed the dead-again body into the flowing water. The current caught it, and began to carry it downriver.
“You survived,” Thomas said.
Charles turned to him and grinned. “It’ll take more than a few zombies and a tornado to kill me.”
“What about Franky? Clara May? Miss Sadie?”
“They’re all fine. The zombies are gone or dead. We need to find Mama. She floated downriver.”
Charles started down the rocky shore. Thomas just stood there watching him, still unable to fathom his relief at seeing his brother alive; he hated Charles, but did blood run deeper than hate?
After a few steps, Charles looked back at him and frowned. “Get moving, you idiot!”
The words washed most of the relief out of Thomas. He started forward, hoping that rather than finding Mama, he would find his hat.
I recommend that you do not seek the blessing of a second life. Because if you do, you become a slave to that second life. Either you guard it with selfish jealousy, prolonging the length of your second life, or you fritter it away on things that hardly matter. Either path brings a fair amount of guilt.
Keep Mama Dead Page 14
