As much as I hated it all, the one comfort I have is that I did my duty. If only that provided more comfort.
Chapter 30: Battle on the brink
As Thomas pulled himself up over the last rock, to the long, flat spine at the top of the landing, he spotted the rest of his family. He and Miss Sadie came up behind a clump of pine trees, which gave them considerable cover. Beyond the trees, the top of the landing stretched for a little more than a hundred yards to the end, without much cover except for some tenacious, waist-high bushes, and a few rocks a person could hide behind by laying flat on the ground.
The top of the landing crested like the roof of a house, with the apex stretching most of the entire length. On the left, after a dozen feet, the landing dropped off into an abyss. On the right, the stone extended for perhaps forty or fifty feet, creating most of the landing’s surface. In any other setting, that surface would prove steep and formidable for walking or climbing, but with sheer cliffs surrounding the landing on all sides, and considering the climb they’d just taken, the slope on the right looked downright pleasant. You could stumble and trip extensively without putting your life in too much peril. It was the left side you had to worry about.
At the far end of the landing, a hundred yards on, past the occasional pile of rock, where the ridge rose a little further to its peak, the Bakers stood with their backs to him in a loose semicircle, all facing Charles, who knelt at the altar carved out of the rock. Eli held Clara May’s hand. Mr. Milne stood in the back of the group. Stanley sat next to him. Mama lay on the altar.
They hadn’t resurrected her, yet.
“This place is amazing,” Miss Sadie said.
For a moment, as he’d taken in the situation, Thomas had forgotten that she accompanied him. She swiveled her head in every direction, gaping at the walls that surrounded them on all sides. Past the open space around the landing, they towered hundreds of feet higher than the landing’s top, red stone near the bottom, turning to white near the top. To the south, the canyon stretched toward Gateway. Green carpeted the valley floor, fifteen hundred feet below.
He still didn’t know what he would do, but he needed to get as close as possible without them seeing him. If she came with him, it would double his chances of being spotted.
“You might want to stay here,” he said.
“I didn’t come this far just to stay here.”
“I don’t even know what my plan is.”
“You’d better think of one, fast.”
“Stay here.”
“I don’t think so.”
The way she set her jaw and raised her eyebrows told him he wouldn’t win the argument. He didn’t have time for it, anyway.
Shaking his head, he turned back, spotted a bush twenty feet out, and bolted toward it. None of his family turned to look in his direction, and he made it safely to the cover. Behind him, she moved without making a sound, a contrast to his own boots on the stone. Fortunately, the wind blew hard, whistling over the top of the ridge, making the bushes and trees rustle.
He held his breath and peered past the bush’s branches. The wind shifted direction, blowing into his face, and on it he heard a hint of Charles’s voice, just a murmur. The next instant, the wind shifted, blowing at his back. Carrying his smell.
To Stanley.
Thomas bolted forward. He had one more set of bushes to hide behind. Beyond that, only small clumps of rock would provide cover, but they stood so low he would only get cover by crouching into a ball. The wind gusted, pushing at his back so hard that he nearly stumbled as he scrambled another twenty yards over the rocks. Miss Sadie came behind him—he knew only from looking back once, not because he heard her at all.
Charles’s voice became louder, but no more distinct. It rose and fell in undulations. Closer, now—only sixty yards out—Thomas could see that Charles lay forward, with his forearms on the edge of the altar, and his hands clasped over Mama’s body. Papa stood at the foot of the altar, his head bowed.
Just as Thomas and Miss Sadie reached cover, stooping below the tops of the branches, Stanley caught their scent on the wind. He jerked his head toward them, and stood, tail wagging. He barked once, and was silenced by a sharp word from Mr. Milne. But he kept looking in their direction.
“That dog is going to see us,” Miss Sadie said. “We can’t do anything about it.”
Thomas’s heart thundered as he peered past the branches. He still had no idea what to do. Words wouldn’t work, no doubt. He could only hope to get Mama off the altar and away from them.
Do anything you have to, Mama’s voice said to him. You useless child—don’t you see that this sacrifice is worth all things? Anything you can do is worth it.
That was it. He would take her body and throw it over the edge of the cliff. That would delay the resurrection until they could recover her—assuming they could escape the zombies—and recovering the body might take longer than a day. By then, the first part of the spell would have worn off.
From the altar to the northern cliff was only a dozen feet. He could grab her off of the stone, drag or carry her across the ground, and hurl her over. He had no other option.
And it was an option with an expiring window; the sound of another wind began to rise above the already present gusting. But the new sound did not come from more wind. It was only the sound of wind.
The sound of Charles beginning to sacrifice his second-life days to resurrect Mama.
Thomas’s time was up.
* * *
Ignoring the stiffness of his body and the insanity—and sheer disrespect—of his plan, Thomas leaped from behind the bush. He didn’t even warn Miss Sadie. He just didn’t have the time.
He had sixty yards to run and six people to get past, and only half a minute to do it.
He’d barely covered ten yards and started to sprint across the apex of the ridge when Stanley noticed him. The dog began to bark and lope toward him, tail wagging. Mr. Milne turned and glared at the dog.
“Quiet!” he said.
His eyes widened as he saw Thomas.
Fifty yards to go.
Mr. Milne turned fully toward Thomas, raising his hands. He stood on the left side of the group, only about ten feet away from the brink.
“Thomas, what are you doing?”
Thomas ignored him. So did Stanley, who rushed over the stone. The others began to turn, eyes widening in surprise. They all seemed to speak at the same time, but Thomas didn’t hear any of it—only the wind rising in volume, but not in strength.
Forty yards.
“Thomas!” Papa said. “You no good—you’d best not try anything.”
But he didn’t move, didn’t take a step to stop Thomas. Neither did Franky. They just stood off to the side, like innocent bystanders. So did Eli. Clara May just started to cry. Nothing unusual, there.
No, he didn’t have six people to get past. Only one: Mr. Milne. The others wouldn’t do anything, and Charles wouldn’t interrupt his spell. For all Thomas knew, the spell-casting consumed so much of Charles’s attention that he hadn’t even realized that Thomas approached.
No, he only had to worry about Mr. Milne.
And Stanley.
Thirty yards out, the dog leaped up at Thomas, ecstatic to see him. Thomas slowed just a little, enough to dodge the dog’s affection. He felt bad about it—after all, Stanley only knew that his master had come back to him; he had no idea what was going on. The dog flew past him, so that only open rock existed in the thirty yards between Thomas and Mr. Milne.
“Thomas,” Mr. Milne said. The wind and sound of wind almost swallowed his voice. “You can’t do this. You don’t know what’s at stake.”
Thomas redoubled his speed.
Twenty yards.
Mr. Milne stepped in front of Thomas and raised his hands in warning, even while bracing himself for an impact. The others all moved to the side, out of Thomas’s path.
Thomas had never thought he would have to fight Mr. Milne. He liked
the man, had always seen eye to eye with him on about every topic they ever discussed. But he recognized, now, that he would only get past Mr. Milne with violence.
Fifteen yards out, Thomas slowed to a walk. Ten yards. Five. His intention was to make it look like he’d decided to heed Mr. Milne’s words, to trick Mr. Milne into lowering his guard.
It worked.
Relief crossed Mr. Milne’s face, and he lowered his hands.
Thomas sprung the last distance between them, swinging at Mr. Milne’s jaw. His fist connected.
With a cry, Mr. Milne sprawled to the left, toward the cliff, stumbling, trying to catch himself.
Only a few feet behind him, Miss Sadie cried out. The roar of the ethereal wind, so close to Charles and with the spell so far advanced, nearly drowned out her shout. It even nearly consumed Stanley’s bark as the dog jumped and ran next to Thomas.
Thomas ignored the mutt and leaped past where Mr. Milne had stood, toward Charles, who still knelt with his hands clasped over Mama. Thomas looked back, panicking that he’d sent Mr. Milne to a long fall—but Miss Sadie had caught him as he’d fallen toward the edge. In fact, he’d hit the ground and slid, so that his torso down to his chest had gone over the edge. Only Miss Sadie, lying on top of his legs, kept him on top of the landing.
Thomas didn’t have time to enjoy his relief. He pushed past Papa and reached Charles and the altar. He couldn’t hear Charles’s voice. He only saw Charles’s mouth moving. It seemed Charles still had no idea that he’d arrived, for the volume of the wind consumed every other sound. Papa’s lips moved. So did Clara May’s and Franky’s, but he didn’t hear any of them. He paid them no heed. If they weren’t willing to physically stop him, he wouldn’t give any credence to their protests.
A loop of rope stretched from around Charles’s neck to Mama’s, a conduit for second-life days to move from him to her. A variety of small seeds, symbolic of the new life she would begin when the spell ended, lay scattered over her chest and folded arms. A dead trout—probably one Franky had caught the night before—lay on her stomach, dry and reeking. A once-living thing, it represented the death that she would overcome.
All the pieces and ingredients of the spell were in place. As soon as Charles finished speaking, life would flow into her. She would rise, work for her family, control Thomas’s life.
He didn’t hesitate, but he couldn’t just remove the rope. While that would interrupt the spell and end the gathering of second-life days, Charles would know something had gone wrong. No, Thomas needed to lift her up and pull her away toward the cliff at the same time, hopefully getting the rope over Charles’s head. Charles would feel it, since his hands touched Mama’s chest.
He leaned over Mama, slipped his arms under her neck and legs, and lifted her off the altar just a few inches. Seeds rolled away, scattering on the altar and rocks around. Her lightness surprised him again, as it had three nights before.
He watched Charles for any sign that he knew what was going on, but Charles still didn’t open his eyes. Surely he felt the rope shifting, but he must have thought it was the wind. Or maybe he didn’t feel it, being so caught up in the spell.
Swallowing hard, almost unable to breathe, Thomas straightened the rest of the way, leaning further over the altar so that the rope came up over Charles’s head and his hands slipped off her body and dropped. The fish fell off her stomach, flopping onto the ground next to the altar.
The spell broke. As Charles’s still-clasped hands hit the smooth red stone of the altar, the wind died without the clap of thunder. Although the natural wind still blew, the sound of the magic wind died away, leaving the area in an eerie near quiet. Franky’s and Papa’s voices—audible once again—stuttered to a stop. About the only sound was Clara May’s sobbing.
Charles’s eyes snapped open.
* * *
Charles’s gaze moved up Thomas’s body, to his eyes. Rage smoldered in every line of his face, in the posture of his shoulders. His hands trembled as they clenched each other.
Twelve feet to the right. That’s how far Thomas needed to go. Just six steps. Then he could heave Mama’s body over the edge.
He turned and began to run. In the peripheral of his vision, Charles rose and began to climb over the altar, face warped in rage as he began to scream.
Thomas didn’t make it two steps.
Charles’s hand closed around the back of Thomas's collar, and yanked. Thomas fell backward.
His shoulders took the bulk of the impact, forcing the air out of him. The base of his skull bounced off of the flat stone, right below the altar. His hat fell away. The wind blew it up against the altar.
Before he could begin to roll or stand—or even regain his breath—Charles finished jumping over the altar, landing to Thomas’s left. He kicked. Thomas barely had enough time to turn his head, so that the boot took him in the back of the skull instead of the side of the face. The hurt of the fall didn’t even compare to this new anguish.
“You ingrate!” Charles said.
He leaned over and grabbed Mama’s arms.
Struggling to inhale, gritting his teeth against the pain, Thomas lost his grip on Mama. He couldn’t stop Charles from dragging her to the side, at an angle toward the edge of the cliff. However, it gave Thomas enough time to breathe, again. As her bare heels slid off of his chest, he rolled to his knees, and to his feet.
He would not let Charles win. He wouldn’t.
All his life Charles had lorded over Thomas, neglected his duties, and lived carefree, doing whatever he wanted to do. He always had his way, got what he wanted, whereas Thomas never did. Never.
Well, not this time.
Screaming, Thomas lunged, fists swinging. Charles let go of Mama’s wrists, and she dropped to the ground with a thud—but not soon enough to block or dodge Thomas’s blows. Two quick ones to the face, and a third to his neck. Thomas didn’t hold back. Not an ounce. He gave the blows everything he had.
Charles stumbled back, but recovered in time to prevent himself from falling off of the edge. He leaped at Thomas.
For the third time in as many days, the fight was on.
* * *
Adrenaline pushed all thought of danger, bodily pain, and weariness out of Thomas’s mind. He fought with abandon, screaming, flailing, and kicking. Charles did the same.
They rotated around each other as they fought, so that one moment Thomas faced the cliff, but the next a few steps back would send him over the edge. Blow after blow fell. He tried to block as many as he could, and landed just as many as he took. He didn’t feel them. He only felt hatred, determination to finally defeat his brother.
All of the other fights, all of the other conflicts didn’t matter. If he could win this once, it would be over and done with, forever. This would be the final clash between them. He could feel it in his own aggressiveness, in the flexing of his muscles, in his complete devotion to the blows. He could see it in the flashes of Charles’s face: one of them would not live.
He had no idea how long it went on. They ranged back and forth along the edge of the cliff, until finally—his vision blurry from blood and sweat—Thomas fell backward onto the altar.
Charles leaped at him, bringing a hammer blow of both fists down at his face. Thomas tilted his head to the side, rolled just a little. Charles’s hands thudded the altar next to Thomas’s ear. Thomas brought his own clasped hands back around and hit Charles in the side of the face. His brother rolled to the side, and Thomas went with him, falling off of the altar and somehow landing on top of his brother, straddling his stomach. The back of Charles’s head hit the ground loud enough that Thomas heard it.
He rained his fists down on Charles’s face. Again and again. Charles tried to stop him, for while Thomas straddled him, his hands and arms were free. One moment Charles would try to cover his face. The next he would try to push Thomas off. Then he would try to protect his face again—but in just a few moments it was a bloody mess. The lips and nose and eyes all po
ured crimson.
Charles went limp. His arms dropped and his head flailed from side to side with each of Thomas’s blows.
Startled, Thomas stopped the punching and staggered back to his feet.
He couldn’t fathom it. He’d killed his brother.
No. Charles’s chest still moved. His muscles twitched. He wasn’t dead. He was unconscious.
But still, elation filled Thomas.
He’d won. For once in his life, he’d won! He’d won the fight that had mattered most.
He clenched his fists, held his arms wide, closed his eyes, turned his head skyward, and roared in triumph. Long and loud. He’d never felt such a thrill, such elation and victory.
And when he lowered his face and opened his eyes, he’d never felt such shame.
His family stood twenty feet off, in a semi-circle around him. He’d forgotten about them. Miss Sadie knelt over Mr. Milne half a dozen feet from the edge of the cliff. They all stared at him, mouths gaping, eyes unbelieving.
He looked down at his unconscious brother, then at his family, then at Mama. He couldn’t let their accusing stares stop him. He couldn’t let the shame dictate the rest of his life.
First things first.
He stepped away from Charles and around the altar, and took up Mama’s wrists in his hands. Blood covered his knuckles, dripped around his fingers and made it hard to grip. But he could hold her well enough to drag her toward the edge.
The misery in his body returned to him. He seemed to suddenly feel every blow Charles had thrown, the hunger of not eating for a day, and the weariness of riding hard all morning. Mama felt like a ton of rocks, and every step he took backward toward the edge was like pulling up a tree stump.
His family just watched him. They would do nothing to stop him. It was simply Papa’s way to do nothing. Franky only did what Thomas told him to do. Clara May—well, she probably wanted to do something, but simply couldn’t decide what to do.
No, they would do nothing. They would let him throw her over the edge. Then he would have to decide whether or not to throw Charles over, too. Now, even with the fight only moments past, he didn’t feel such hatred, such rage.
Keep Mama Dead Page 27
