Keep Mama Dead

by S. James Nelson

  Thomas glanced at the house, and sprinted after Charles. Smoke had begun to flow from tiny cracks in the wall of the barn, shining white in the moonlight. The major pillar of smoke, in the back, stretched upward in the darkness, a tendril of flickering orange. From inside came the muffled sound of wood popping in fire. The cows bawled. Too bad about them.

  They ran toward the barn, Thomas trailing by twenty feet. He wouldn’t catch his brother before they reached the barn. But it didn’t matter. Charles couldn’t open the barn door any more than Thomas could have. He would need a key to the lock.

  Sure enough, Charles reached the door and tried to open it. He pulled twice on the door and yanked at the lock. The clattering of the wood and the clank of the metal latch against the lock sounded like the bells of victory. Thomas reached him, ramming him from behind and slamming him up against the barn with unbridled force. As they collided, he grabbed the back of Charles’s shirt. Thomas turned his face enough so that his cheek struck the back of Charles’s head. Charles’s face hit the barn door, and with a grunt his body flattened against the wood.

  For an instant, pressed there against his brother, Thomas smelled the reek of sweat, horse, smoke.

  Together, they rebounded from the wood and staggered backward. Thomas spun and swung his arms out, pulling Charles in an arc and throwing him away from the barn. Charles couldn’t recover from the motion and sprawled onto the ground, onto his chest.

  Thomas drew his foot back for a kick to Charles’s face. The action lasted only a moment, but time stretched during that instant, drew out as he saw what was going on.

  The fight with Charles had ceased being about Mama or resurrecting her. It had become about the farm. It had become about all the work that Thomas had done to make up for Charles’s irresponsibility. It had become about that horse and Charles’s victory in the race that afternoon, Thomas’s slavery to his family, how all of his friends had disappeared and left him alone in exchange for raising a family. It had become about how Charles wanted to turn in Miss Sadie.

  It had become about everything they had against each other. The things that made them enemies.

  And for that, Thomas had degenerated into the kind of person who would kick a man while he was down.

  He hated that. He’d always hated that kind of person.

  So he pulled the blow. He stopped the kick. Instead he just stood over his brother, fists clenched.

  An image popped into his head—a memory of Charles back at the house, kneeling at the foot of Mama’s bed, his face turned up in agony as he gave his second-life days to cast the first half of the spell. How the color and life had practically drained from his body. His snatching up that piece of paper and reeling from the room, drunk with weariness.

  Charles. Sacrificing for Mama after her death like he’d never sacrificed for her while she lived. To bring her back.

  “She doesn’t want to be resurrected."

  Charles rolled away and staggered to his feet. Blood covered the side of his face where it had scraped against the barn door. It was the same side the zombie had scratched the day before, and those wounds had re-opened. The rising smoke reflected in his fiery eyes.

  “You always hated her!” Charles said.

  Up the lane at the house, people began to flow from the door onto the porch, shouting as they descended the steps and bolted toward the barn. Thomas could do nothing against such a tide of people. With luck, he’d delayed them long enough that they couldn’t recover Mama.

  “It’s not about her,” Charles said. “I know it’s not. It’s all about you. That’s all it’s ever about.”

  The hypocrisy of those words from Charles made Thomas wish he hadn’t pulled the kick. He jumped forward, shouting and swinging his fists. Charles dodged and returned the blows with his own. A solid one landed right on Thomas’s cheek, sending him reeling. Before he could regain his balance, Charles jumped at him, raining fist after fist on Thomas’s neck and head, until he collapsed onto all fours on the ground.

  Stars began to fill his vision. His head thundered.

  Charles kicked Thomas’s hands out from under him. He fell onto his face and chest. The air rushed from his body. He rolled—aided by a well-timed kick from Charles—but couldn’t get away before Charles leaped onto him, straddling him, pinning his arms under his knees. Just like the zombie had done that morning.

  Thomas was getting used to the disadvantage.

  He bucked, but Charles kept him down and hit him in the face with his right fist. Then his left. Then his right. He swore as he punched.

  The voices of men surrounded them. Thomas couldn’t see them from how his vision blurred, but knew of their presence from the shouting for buckets. The cows’ crying from inside the barn barely reached over the sound of fire.

  The weight on Thomas’s body lightened and disappeared. He opened his eyes to see Eli and Franky pulling Charles away. The legs of men blocked his vision everywhere he looked. In the midst of the cries for water, someone wondered aloud about how the fire had started.

  They didn’t know, yet. They couldn’t fathom that someone would purposefully set a barn on fire. He wanted to stand, to run away. Shame filled him.

  He’d destroyed a man’s property, killed his cows. He couldn’t think of much worse in the world—but he could think of something: resurrecting someone who didn’t want to live again.

  Did that justify his actions?

  The tangy smell of burning wood filled Thomas’s head. A clanking of metal on metal preceded a creak of hinges. Then came a blast of heat and a billow of smoke from the direction of the barn. The legs around him thinned as men stepped aside, out of the searing air; and Thomas saw past them, into the open barn doors.

  Inside, fire burned on all sides and above. It curled up the walls and twisted around posts. It raged in the stalls and up in the hayloft. Stray bits of hay burned on the ground. The crackling of the fire sounded like the laughter of demons, and the popping of the wood like the wailing of the condemned. And in the very center, the wagon looked like a specter of a damned soul, almost invisible through the churning of smoke and ash.

  Although a bit of burning hay had fallen onto the coffin, it otherwise lay untouched.

  He’d failed. They would get it out.

  He wanted to stand, to rise and fight them all off so that Mama could burn.

  Someone—just a dark silhouette against the light—ran up to the door and threw the first bucket of water onto the fire. The heat consumed the moisture in an instant.

  The barn began to groan. Something cracked above—some beam in the ceiling, past the wagon—and a section of the roof collapsed with a belch of heat and sparks. The men stepped back, away from the barn. The chattering of their voices filled the air.

  “It’s going to collapse!” someone shouted above the din.

  The group scattered away even further, backing past Thomas. He sat up, began to rise, but his legs wobbled and he couldn’t lift himself. Hands grasped his arms and pulled him up and backward, away from the flames.

  He looked back, half expecting, half hoping to find Miss Sadie. But it was Franky, his eyes intent on the barn.

  “She’s going to burn.” His voice bore no emotion.

  He pulled Thomas back on his trembling legs, further and further from the barn. Even forty feet back, the heat scorched Thomas’s face like he stood right next to it.

  So fast. The flames had spread so fast.

  Another section of the roof collapsed, this one off to the right. For a second it looked like liquid fire—almost like the second-life days brimming in the well deep inside Thomas—the way it flowed from the ceiling to the ground, landing right next to the wagon. Smoke and ash billowed up around it.

  So close. It had almost succeeded in covering the wagon and coffin.

  But it was probably close enough. No one would dare go in there. And they couldn’t fight that fire. He’d succeeded. He’d done it! He smiled, let the heat from the hellfire bathe him. />
  But from Thomas’s right, Charles shot out from the crowd. The men collectively cried out, calling him back. One reached out for him, grabbing his arm. But he yanked himself free and ran straight for the open barn doors.

  Thomas tried to follow, to stop him, but he had no strength against Franky’s hands.

  “He’s going to get himself killed,” Franky said.

  Thomas hoped so—yet he hated that he hoped so. Among all other things, Charles was his brother. Blood bound them together even despite the hate.

  Charles ran into the barn, a lone figure in the light, just a shadow moving among the flames. He reached the open back of the wagon and leaped up onto the bed. Further back, another bit of roof collapsed. The barn groaned and started to tilt to the left, away from the trees, toward the field.

  Charles darted to the far side of the wagon, placed his body between the back of the wagon bed and the coffin, and pushed on the coffin with his feet. He threw his head back in a scream that Thomas couldn’t hear because of the fire. The coffin slid out of the wagon bed, and its end slammed into the dirt. Thomas knew there’d been the sound of wood scraping on wood, and a thunk when the end of the coffin hit the dirt, but he heard none of it. The sound of flames consumed everything.

  Charles jumped out of the wagon, ducked down beneath the coffin, and pushed. It stood up straight, teetered there for a moment, and fell over into the dirt. Again seemingly without a sound—because just as it hit the ground, the roof collapsed right behind Charles, onto the wagon.

  Fire and ash splashed all around him as he jumped down from the wagon, over the coffin. Sparks surrounded him like a flurry of burning snowflakes. At the head of the coffin, he bent and began to pull on it, using the rope handle.

  Alone, he dragged the coffin to safety, out of the barn.

  A reluctant admiration burgeoned in Thomas. He could never hope to do something so heroic.

  He hated Charles all the more for it.

  Now there’s a son who’ll do anything for his Mama. What about you, Thomas?

  As Charles pulled the coffin clear, the barn released a sigh and collapsed to the left. It seemed to take a full ten seconds to fall. Everything came down in a maelstrom of twisting flames. A great pillar of ash and sparks lifted into the sky.

  The cows didn’t stand a chance.

  Charles continued to pull until he was well clear of the burning mass. Then he straightened and turned to scan the crowd. Someone cheered him. Then another, and in a moment the mob of twenty men clapped and shouted to Charles. It was like he’d won another great race.

  Thomas hated him all the more for it.

  Charles didn’t seem to notice the applause. His eyes found Thomas. They smoldered with animosity. He raised a hand and pointed, and the men fell silent.

  “He did it,” Charles said. “He set the barn on fire.”

  But every now and then you see an action you took, and you still know it was the right action to take. Hopefully as your life progresses before your eyes, and the rashness of youth falls behind, there are more of these moments. Such was not the case with me. I seemed to get dumber every day.

  Chapter 23: Damned

  Thomas hunched at the kitchen table, unaware of any other aspect of the room because of the people surrounding him. He leaned over the table, staring down at the grain of the polished wood.

  He wouldn’t look up at them. None of them. Not Papa, Mr. Milne, the owner of the barn, or the dozen other men. He felt like a defendant in a trial, and the men served as the jury. He just couldn’t decide who was the judge, and who the executioner.

  So many people in such a small room generated a great deal of warmth. Or, perhaps Thomas’s face still burned from the heat of the fire. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His breath came slow and hard and deep. His elbows and clasped fists rested on the smooth wooden table. He arched his back, kept his head down, like he prayed for mercy.

  Except he didn’t want mercy. He wanted a swift judgment and punishment. Although, preferably not death.

  He hurt everywhere. He wanted sleep. He wanted rest. He wanted freedom from his family and these men.

  “He’s crazy,” Papa said. “Downright insane.”

  Thomas glanced up. Papa had a wild look in his eyes, an anxious excitement like he anticipated killing a small animal. He was the executioner. Definitely. He’d been slowly killing Thomas for nearly twenty years.

  “He’s a criminal,” said the farm’s owner. He had a strange accent that Thomas didn't recognize, one that made him slur his words a little. Thomas didn’t look up at him. “He’s got to make restitution for his crimes. He burned down my barn. He killed my milk cows. He burned up my—.”

  “We know what he did,” Mr. Milne said, calm as ever. He was the judge, the way he looked at Thomas with those weighty eyes. “We all saw it.”

  “Well, he’s got to pay!”

  The men around the room grumbled their agreement.

  “I do wonder,” Mr. Milne said, “if William isn’t correct. Something isn’t right with this boy.”

  “He’s a danger to his Mama,” Papa said.

  The comment struck Thomas as funny: dangerous to a dead person. He chuckled, and it made his ribs hurt.

  “See!” Papa said, pointing at him. “He ain’t right in the head. I knowed it for years. He lacks the natural love a boy should have for his mother. He’s a danger to the whole land.”

  “Quiet!” Mr. Milne said, so sharply that Thomas looked up. “He’s just ignorant. And it’s best that he stay that way.”

  Thomas broke his silence. “What do you mean?”

  He glared at Mr. Milne, who met his gaze without looking down or away. He kept his eyes level, raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly. Thomas thought of Mr. Milne back at the house, chasing Mr. Brady off, then back at Hurricane in the courtroom, trying to talk the council into letting them resurrect Mama.

  Thomas shook his head. “This has something to do with what you told the council?”

  “He’s crazy,” the owner of the barn said. “Look at his face. His eyes. His Papa’s right. He’s a danger.”

  Mr. Milne nodded once, very slowly, still looking at Thomas’s eyes.

  “I think you’re right, everyone. He is a danger to himself and to others. He needs to be locked up. To protect himself.”

  Thomas’s chest constricted, and he looked down again. Locked up. Like a lunatic. He was the only sane person around, and they wanted to put him away. It made sense, in a way. To a bunch of crazy people, a sane person would seem insane.

  Problem was, from a padded room he couldn’t stop them from resurrecting Mama.

  You cannot give up, Thomas. You must find a way to stop them from bringing me back.

  “That’s right,” Papa said. “We should send him to the asylum in St. George. He can’t hurt anyone there.”

  Mr. Milne nodded. “At least until this current storm has passed. Then we can re-evaluate his mental condition.”

  “It’s not likely to get better,” Thomas said. “Although, being away from you people might help.”

  “And he’s got to make restitution!”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Milne. “He’ll make restitution. But for now, since there isn’t a jail here in town, we need to find a good place to lock him away.”

  “Tie him up,” said Papa.

  “Put guards around him,” said the barn owner.

  “It’s settled, then,” said Mr. Milne. “Let’s put him away.”

  Thomas sighed and shook his head as they prodded him to his feet. At least he could spend some time away from his family, have a little break before he had to go back to work under Mama’s watchful eye.

  Part III: Angel’s Landing

  Charles was a gift from God. The way he came to me made that clear. I could pour into him all of my desires and wants. I could give him the life I wished I had. During my Life Vision, I determined that the kind of lives we want would probably turn us into exceptionally bad people.


  Chapter 24: Undead infestation

  Zombies arrived with the dawn.

  Thomas knew because bells rang out, just like they had the day before, in Hurricane. He stood from his bed and went to the window. If he stretched against the ropes, he could get close enough to the glass to look up and down the street.

  The night before, they’d brought him to this building and bound his hands behind his back and leashed him to the bedpost. He’d tried to sleep, but his racing thoughts made it hard. So he’d just lain there much of the night, stewing—except for when the militia arrived late in the night. Then he ignored the protest of his legs and got up, walked to the window and stretched his rope taut, so that his arms lifted up behind his back at an unnatural angle. But it got him close enough to the window to look out at the street.

  The militia had marched in, all organized in jagged rows and columns, almost like a real army. There were, perhaps, more than a thousand men. Their timing would prove fortuitous, given the arrival of the zombies in the morning.

  But Thomas hadn’t cared much. He’d returned to his bed and tried to sleep. He suspected that dreams came and went, but couldn’t really tell when he slept and when he woke. Over and over he saw those flames consuming that barn, and the figure silhouetted against it, pushing the coffin out of the wagon, sparks and fire swirling around it. He heard the song of many guns, felt a hollow steel tube against his forehead, and saw the mutilation of a zombie corpse by an angel. Water rushing all around him, and wood floating by. A mother ejecting her fornicating, poetic son from her house. A wind that didn’t touch, making his home tremble.

  Mama, laying dead in her bed, Papa next to her, snoring. Her, finally looking at rest. Happy.

  You’ve failed, Thomas. You have not fulfilled your responsibility to me. Do not give up, yet.

  He couldn’t tell his dreams from his thoughts. It all seemed one continuous stream of thought, like he floated on a river, sometimes in rapids, and sometimes in the calm.