Stanley gave Thomas another of his looks.
Thomas shrugged. “She’s got some things to work through.”
He retrieved his hat and followed her back inside, to see what had happened the next street over.
* * *
People danced in the street. They rode their horses over the remains of the zombies—which, by the time Thomas reached the front side of the courthouse, looked far worse than the zombie Miss Sadie had destroyed. Their clothes lay scattered throughout the street, but not much remained of the flesh as horse after horse pounded the remains into the stone pavement. The smell of fired guns hovered over the air, along with a slight haze of gun smoke. Men, women, and children hooted and hollered. They shot rifles into the air. Somewhere down the street, a fiddle played and people clapped in time with the rhythm.
Hundreds of them had defeated the two dozen zombies.
Miss Sadie and Thomas didn’t join them. Her mood wouldn’t allow it. The way she frowned at the crowd said plainly that she didn’t think anyone should celebrate anything to do with zombies. So he stood by her side, outside the courthouse doors, wanting to take her hand in his, to offer some comfort. But she probably wouldn’t appreciate it. A change still transpired inside her, some kind of hardening. It showed on her face.
Mr. Milne, who stood off to the side with the council and Mayor, smiling at the celebration, spotted them. His expression turned to surprise—he’d probably thought they’d reached the end of town by then—and he came over.
Thomas spoke first.
“Zombies attacked us on the other side of the courthouse. Two of them. They’re dead, now. Permanently.”
Mr. Milne looked from Thomas to Miss Sadie, and back again. He gave a long nod, with raised eyebrows. Surely he could sense that something went on in Miss Sadie’s head and heart.
“Well,” he said, “they were smarter than I’d have given them credit for. I hadn’t thought they’d watch the back door.”
A jubilant cry arose on the street. People all began to shout, “Clear the way! Clear the way! They’re going to race!”
Nausea invaded Thomas’s belly. He knew instantly what was going on. Others all around him asked who was racing, what was going on, but he understood. Charles’s race. The one he’d arranged to determine who had the fastest horse in town.
Sure enough, Miss Sadie’s and Mr. Milne’s horses stood together in front of the courthouse, still tied to the pole with people all around. But Lightning was nowhere nearby. That one-track-minded, worthless, no good twin of his had remembered the race through the events of the entire morning and not said a word about it to anyone. No doubt he’d always intended to hold the race, and would have done anything necessary for it.
And now the whole town would watch. Charles would love that. He’d relish having everyone witness his glorious triumph, his proving that he had the fastest horse, and was the best rider.
Thomas hoped he failed.
The thought surprised him. But he couldn’t deny it. He hoped that Lightning stumbled and threw Charles. He wanted to see Charles lose by half a dozen lengths. He wished for a score of terrible things to happen. He wanted the wind taken out of that jerk’s sails. He wanted Charles’s ego to deflate. He wanted some blessing-brought help on the farm—that’s what he wanted.
Nothing good can come of this jealousy, Thomas. He’s your brother. My son. My favorite son. Deal with it.
The street cleared, leaving the scattered remains of the clothing and trampled flesh of the zombies strewn about. People packed the boardwalks in front of buildings, and the first few feet of the sandstone street. Parents hoisted children onto their shoulders for a better look. An excited murmur filled the area. To Thomas’s right, a cheer arose, and two horses lined up in the distance, perhaps a quarter mile down the street.
“Thomas,” Miss Sadie said.
He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the horses.
“Thomas,” she said again. This time she stepped half in front of him. “This isn’t a time to celebrate. This is bad.”
“No kidding,” Thomas said. “If he wins, he’ll be unbearable.”
She grabbed his jaw with her hand and squeezed. She’d taken off her glove. That got his attention. Her fingers—though they compressed his skin and jawbones—felt warm. Electric. He looked away from Charles’s race.
She pointed with her chin at the door behind him. “Come inside with me. I need to tell you something.”
He nodded, and as he turned to follow her tried to catch a look at Charles. A cheer erupted from the crowd, and the horses began to run. Gritting his teeth against Miss Sadie’s undeniable pull, he followed her inside, to the foyer with the paintings and swords on the walls. The place smelled even more strongly of gunpowder than the street. She’d nearly shut the door when Mr. Milne stepped in.
Thomas grunted, annoyed that he wouldn’t see the race.
“This was a distraction,” she said. She wrung her hands. “These zombies weren’t really here to retrieve me—at least, that wasn’t their only purpose.”
“What else could there be?” Mr. Milne asked.
“They were testing our resolve. They wanted to see how we would react to zombies. Or, they may even be a distraction.”
Thomas and Mr. Milne spoke simultaneously: “A distraction?”
She nodded. Her eyes grew distant and she began to shake her head. Panic edged into the corners of her eyes.
“A distraction from their main purpose. They don't care about Hurricane. And compared to what he’s always wanted, the Lich Mayor doesn’t care much about me. He wants what he’s always wanted.”
Mr. Milne nodded in understanding. “Zion’s Canyon.”
“Brady had more than a thousand zombies at Brady’s Watch. They’ll be headed for Zion’s. They could be there, already. We have to warn everyone. We have to get an army there right away.”
“It’s obvious,” Mr. Milne said. “Of course you’re right."
"We should have expected this," Thomas said. "The barrier is down. Naturally the Moabites will invade."
Mr. Milne's face had paled considerably. "We need to tell the council and Mayor. They need to mobilize an army. Request help from St. George.”
He started to turn, but she grabbed his arm, stopped him.
“Did you tell them who I am? Did Charles tell them when we left the courthouse?”
That had only been five minutes before. Maybe ten. It felt like much longer.
“No, they were distracted by the zombies.”
Some tension flowed out of her face. “Will you tell them about this for me? I can’t tell them. They’ll learn who I am.”
“Of course,” Mr. Milne said.
They headed back out of the building. The race had ended, and the street had again filled with people talking excitedly. Looking to his left and right, Thomas couldn’t tell who had triumphed: Charles or his opponent. He couldn’t even see Charles, although a dozen or more men rode horses through the crowd.
He spotted Eli and Clara May in the street in front of the courthouse. They just stood there, watching the crowd around them, smiling at the festive mood. Forgetting about Miss Sadie and Mr. Milne, Thomas pushed past a dozen people to reach Clara May. He grabbed one of her arms and yanked her around much harder than he intended.
“Who won?” he said.
Her eyes sparkled with pride. “Charles! Charles won!”
Again, that bitterness rose in Thomas’s stomach, like bile before vomit. He could almost taste it.
That horse. That horse had caused Thomas so much hassle, and now it would only get worse. Two harvests before, Charles had started working at another farm near Hurricane in exchange for meager pay. When Thomas had challenged him on it—saying that Charles should instead help at home—Mama had told Thomas to drop it. He’d argued with her, but she’d persisted and eventually he gave up.
It went on for the entire fall and into winter, ending just after the spring planti
ng. Then Charles came home one day with the horse and all the gear he needed to care for and ride it—including those shiny boots. Everyone loved that horse. Clara May. Mama. Franky. Even Papa. Only Thomas hated it. He hated it more than anything.
Charles could run off with it whenever he wanted. Ride it all day long. But the second Thomas tried to go somewhere to have some fun—maybe visit one of his friends who'd gotten married—Mama told him to get back to work. He had a duty to tend to, responsibility to fulfill. Mouths to feed—including that blasted fastest horse in the country.
Well, no more. He would get away from it all. He would find a way to leave them all. He would see that Clara May and Franky were taken care of, then he would leave. He would go live a life of his own choosing.
He just had to stop them from resurrecting—
The council had decided to allow her resurrection.
He hadn’t really had a chance to process that information before, with the zombies arriving, but as he stood in the midst of that crowd, everyone celebrating their victory with dancing and cheering, the reek of zombies laying beneath the heavy odor of gunpowder, the weight of it settled onto him.
Mama would live again. She would be back.
A part of him wanted to celebrate—the part that yearned for her embrace and her approval, her companionship in the fields. But the rest of him revolted at the image of her rising from the altar up atop Angel’s Landing. How could he ever hope to escape his familial servitude with Mama around? She would never allow it. She would keep him there until the day he died. Or until she died again.
And beyond that, she didn’t want to come back. There was no chance she did.
Thomas, don’t you fail me. Don’t you dare let them bring me back. Do anything you have to.
He looked back across the crowd, to the courthouse door where Mr. Milne stood talking with the Mayor. He made broad, sweeping gestures, and pointed to the east, toward Zion’s Canyon. The Mayor’s face had gone pallid, not unlike Mama’s. At the rail in front of the courthouse, she hung there on Mr. Milne’s horse, arms and hair dangling down.
What reason could Mr. Milne possibly have given that would make them allow the resurrection? And why couldn’t they tell Thomas? Why had Papa looked so smug? Aside from getting his way.
The entire thing made Thomas’s blood boil. It made him want to hit things, to take Mr. Milne by the collar of his nice woolen coat and shake him. It made him want to lay into Charles and Papa with fists and words. He wanted to take a bullet to Lightning, or go back to Eli’s farm and have at Eli’s parents, and tell Clara May just how idiotic she acted. Getting pregnant? Really? Getting pregnant?
He found himself clenching his fists. People around him danced and cheered. Someone pulled Clara May and Eli into a jig, and she tried to pull Thomas along. He resisted, yanking his arm back.
In the midst of that hubbub, he felt like the only person with any care in the world. Like not a single person there had even one problem to weigh them down. Only him. He was the only one with the responsibility of a lazy family to support and a mother to protect and keep dead.
Only him. No one else understood. Not one of them. Not Mr. Milne. Not the Mayor. Sure as hell not Papa or Charles.
Something sprouted deep in his soul. Something raw and animalistic. Something desperate and brutal.
Anything. He would do anything. He would not let himself stay trapped in this situation where he was the only one with any responsibility or inkling of wrongness.
He would not stay trapped. He would not.
Turning away from the dancing, he headed back toward the courthouse, Mr. Milne, and the Mayor. As he walked, he noticed Miss Sadie inside the open door, back a little ways, watching the exchange with intent eyes.
Miss Sadie. She might understand him. Maybe she did.
Whatever the case, he would find a way. He would.
He would do anything.
Unfortunately, things only got worse.
I am not optimistic, however, that the Life Vision would do William any good. He would probably find a way to convince himself that he did the best with what hand life dealt him. He don’t need the blessing of persuasion to talk himself into that. He never did.
Chapter 21: Turned opinions
Whatever Mr. Milne had said behind those closed courtroom doors had not only convinced the council to let Thomas's family resurrect Mama, it also drove them to provide the Bakers with a wagon and pair of sturdy draft horses. Not to mention food, rope, a coffin, and other supplies. All free of charge.
Thomas regarded the unexpected supplies with skepticism. It seemed unreal. Something strange was going on.
“We sure do appreciate the help,” Papa said. He sat on the driver’s seat of the wagon, in front of the courthouse. “But we’d hate to be beholden to any man. We’ll pay you for it as soon as we can.”
“No,” said the Mayor, wagging his chin. “That’s not necessary. You just hurry on and get her resurrected.”
A few hours had passed since the race, but Charles still sat on his horse with a stupid grin on his face. Thomas could’ve slapped him. Most people had dispersed from the street, although a large body of men had begun to gather on the far end of town. A militia, to march for Gateway before mid-afternoon.
Franky sat in the back of the wagon with his arm draped over the coffin, almost like it was Mama’s shoulders. Eli and Clara May actually sat on the coffin; a distasteful action at best. The Mayor and the council stood on the boardwalk in front of the courthouse, and Mr. Milne and Miss Sadie sat on their horses. Thomas sat on the rear of the wagon, with his legs hanging over the back, arm around Stanley.
“Now, now,” Papa said. “Don’t deny a man his right to pay his own way in the world. We’ll pay for the wagon and mules.”
The Mayor shook his head knowingly. “You’d best be going. You’ve got work to get done.” He smiled at Charles. “That was a fine race you won, there, son. That’s a beautiful horse.”
Charles beamed.
Three hours before, everyone in the city had turned up their noses at the Bakers, treated them like the hillbillies they were. Now all this. The cheering for Charles, and the gifting of a wagon and horses to Papa. The world had turned upside down.
“Well, we thank you,” Papa said. He rubbed his hands on his legs and assumed a thoughtful expression. “I wonder—would you happen to have a new pair of overalls a man could have? And boots. Of course, I’d pay for them as soon as we had the money.”
The council members looked at each other and shook their heads. The Mayor laughed and raised a hand in farewell.
“Well,” Papa said, “it’s just as well. I don’t want to be beholden to any man.”
He snapped the reins, and the horses started off. They passed the grisly remains of the zombies in the street. Flesh pounded into the pavement. A scrap of cloth. Their rotten stench lingered.
Thomas remembered the feel of gun steel pressed to his head, those blank eyes looking down at him without the least bit of interest, remorse, or feeling. The desiccated face, rotten teeth.
He’d come within an instant of joining Mama.
The thought made him shiver.
As the wagon proceeded out of Hurricane, Miss Sadie and Mr. Milne followed on their mounts. Charles took the lead. Naturally. Thomas was glad that his position made it easiest for him to look backward, away from his family. Two dozen militiamen, riding horses and armed with guns and swords, joined them as a sort of guard. It mystified Thomas.
They traveled on the narrow dirt road, which followed the general course of the river. Over and over, the river fell away to the right, curving around some copse of scrub oak, only to reappear next to the road further on. Sagebrush and scrub oak spotted the wide canyon, and the mountains rising around them bespoke of grander peaks further to the north and east.
Clara May and Eli prattled on with each other about absolutely nothing. Neither one seemed capable of having a thought without articulating it. Every now and t
hen Franky asked them to stop talking, but just as often he joined in the conversation. Papa mused about a future possible new pair of pants at least every fifteen minutes, and just as often remembered the last time he’d made this trip to Zion’s Canyon: to fail in obtaining his blessing of persuasion. Ain’t nothing was the same since. A man can’t catch a break.
Charles rode among the militiamen, engaging them in conversation that Thomas couldn’t hear but could imagine well enough. Otherwise, the militiamen kept to themselves, talking with each other and always looking around with suspicion—half the time at the Baker family.
Thomas didn’t blame them.
He brooded, hardly noticing the jarring of the wagon in potholes. His mind turned and turned, trying to find ways to stop his family. With every rotation of the wagon wheel, every scratch behind Stanley’s ear, he felt himself more committed to his mission. Mama, lying in the coffin behind him, seemed to chatter almost as much as Clara May, telling him that nothing had changed. The council shouldn’t get to determine her fate. She’d lived her life. She’d served her family enough.
It was as if the more people fought to resurrect her, the more she wanted to stay dead, and the more Thomas found himself wanting to make it happen.
The desperation, born in him that morning, only grew. It curled up from his heart and around his spine, out into his arms and down into his legs. He felt it in his fingers and toes, in his nose and ears. A time or two he thought of the farm, how it lay unplanted and unplowed, and a vague sense of concern touched his mind—but it couldn’t compare with the worry over his and his Mama’s fates.
He made and discarded a thousand plans during the morning, each more drastic than the last. Each more ridiculous. They all seemed possible, though, and many of them more preferable than hearing Mama’s rebuke as she rose from the dead.
With one hand, he played constantly with the toy bumblebees, and with his other scratched Stanley. The dog stayed put, enjoying the benefits of Thomas’s nervous meditation.
Keep Mama Dead Page 19
