Second Dead by T Francis Sharp

  ***

  “Come on, Anna, get up. We’re going out.” Dad shook me awake.

  I stretched in the dim candlelight. Susan moved in the shadows while she dressed. “What’s this about?” I asked.

  “Dunno.” She shook her head. “But Dad’s in a hurry.” She studied me for a moment. “Another dream?”

  “Yeah.” I yawned. “Me and Nana again.”

  “You really need to do something about these dreams.”

  “Like what? I’m open to ideas.”

  “I don’t know. Talk to Mom or Dad?”

  “Yeah, right. Dad would want to talk about my feelings. And Mom? She’d accuse me of endangering Nana’s soul. You’ve heard her; we have to let them go, let the dead move on.”

  “Well yeah, Anna, that only makes sense. It’s no good brooding on the past.”

  “I don’t need her guilt trip. If Mother wants to believe that crap, that's fine with me. But I refuse to lead my life based on some backwoods, third world superstition. The dead are dead, period. There’s no coming back from the afterworld or whatever the hell it is she believes.”

  “You don’t know that. Just because you’re too sophisticated to believe doesn’t make it wrong.”

  “Do you really want to walk around the house for the next month choking on incense smoke while Mom makes me do her voodoo crap?”

  Susan sighed. “It’s Buddhist meditative realigning of your inner energy flows. And who knows, it might help.”

  “I’ll keep it bottled up if you don’t mind.” Before Susan could protest, I hissed, “Not a word to Mother. You promised.”

  I armed myself with my usual weapons. My gift from the night before came to mind so I dropped one of my knives onto the mattress and slid the longer of the two blades into my boot.

  I flipped the lid open, removed the broken arrow, and gazed at it for a moment before sliding it into my left boot. I removed two quivers of arrows from the closet door and slung one across each shoulder. Pulling my bow off a hook, I waited for Susan.

  She pulled two quivers of arrows from the hooks on the closet door. I nodded and followed her up the stairs. Dad and Chris were in the kitchen arguing.

  “Don’t understand why I can’t go,” Chris whispered in the candlelight.

  “I’ve already told you; this has to be quick and quiet.”

  “That leaves you out.”

  Dad ignored the jab. “Listen, son.”

  ‘Listen son’ was Dad’s way of putting his foot down, to indicate discussion was over. “I know Mark, and you don’t. So I’ve got to be there.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “That’s not what I mean. If they’re dead, we’ll be back in an hour. If they’re alive--” Dad paused. “Well, it’s been a while since I‘ve seen them. There might be problems.”

  “All the more reason--”

  “No. I can handle Mark if it comes to that.”

  “We’re ready, Dad,” I said when we entered the kitchen.

  Chris relented. He leaned against the counter and glared at us.

  “All right, we’re headed up to the Bulger’s. I don’t expect trouble but keep sharp and be prepared for anything.” Dad spoke calmly, although his expression belied his words.

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  He grimaced, bit his lower lip and glanced from Susan to me. “I don’t know what waits for us, honestly. At the best of times, Mark and his boys are a little off. These are most certainly not the best of times. So it’s best to go up there as non-threatening as possible.”

  Just in case they might think we left them out to dry when the herd came through. So that's why Susan and I were the only ones going with Dad, he counted on some code of chivalry from the Bulger boys. Great, what could possibly go wrong?