Firestorm

The wood burned so hot it crinkled outward, curdling into black cinders before flaking off and drifting to the ashen ground. Father paced back and forth, too close, restless. The Sheriff and deputies watched him; the government man stood distant, observing Father with visible discomfort.

Palliative words had been tossed around. "For the good of the community, Mr. Sumner. We don't want the other livestock infected. You will be compensated." The government man, his voice clipped and professional. Smooth cheeks, shaven that morning in preparation for the day's work. Clothes high-end, professional casual. Young, too-half Father's age, if that.

"Rick, I'm so goddamned sorry." The Sheriff, protecting the rest of Charleston County. Aged brow crinkled; a puddle of tobacco gathering at his feet, spat unconsciously from the corner of his mouth. Paunch pressed against the tan uniform, slacks too loose. His voice heavy with regret. You burn a man's life, you burn a part of yourself in the process.

Only Father seemed to move. Him and the flames, engaged in an elaborate tango-fire reckless, crazed, Father angry, vengeful. His broad outline cut through the night, backlit by the fire that tore at the old barn. He muttered to himself, jaw moving, the words not reaching beyond his own ears. The Sheriff frowned, spat. Mother and Sheila had gone back inside. The deputies shifted their weight, rifles resting at their sides.

I watched from the recesses of the porch. The mosquitoes bit at me, but I swatted them away. The crackling of the fire mingled with the chirping of the crickets. The cicadas, from the grove of trees, were silent for once, drowned out, forgotten. Distant as I was, the only heat I felt was natural, the oppressive humidity of an August night. Sweaty, sticky skin. Father, glowing in the firelight. Ceaseless. Wood cracking, splitting, exploding. The fire consumed flesh and rotten wood-but it wasn't enough. It reached for Father, stretched for him. Another inch. Just an inch. He glared at the fire, as though daring it to touch him, to take him too.

The odor coming from the barn was awful but enticing, within a breadth of being something familiar, something mundane. Charred wood, charred beef. A smell almost normal for a night like this. I stopped noticing it, then a strong breeze picked it up again and I remembered what it was. I remembered the shooting; they'd made Father use his own gun. For some reason, that struck me the hardest. Father's own bullets, bought with hard-earned money, wasted in the brains of his own cattle. His boots and jacket and hands muddied with their blood. My hands too. Flies and ticks and fleas-I'd found them swarming me, the parasites leaving their hosts as the body temperatures cooled, the flies moving in for the feast. Four-man teams, dragging the cattle into the barn one at a time. My job, to check and make sure the stray cats were gone. Pouring the gasoline. Closing the door. Father locked it behind him and no one asked why.

The heat drug out the night. I crept off the porch, moved closer. The Sheriff saw me, gave a nod. Father, before the barn, hands clutching themselves, turning over, wiping his shirt, his face. Smearing the blood and dirt Mother had failed to wash off. A spark struck his shirt; a small flame ignited. Father patted it out unconsciously.

I could feel the tension mounting. You can, sometimes. When there's enough of it in the air. Like a thunderhead gathering, like a summer storm approaching across the fields. The skies slowly fade to a green-brown. The air becomes thick, substantial; you have to push it out of the way as you move deliberately back to the house, glancing towards the shelter, making sure it isn't locked. Then the clouds grow black, coming in from the southwest like maleficent waves, sleek and rolling. When the rain comes, you barely notice-a sprinkle here, a trickle there. Deceptively gentle, a caress from the hangman.

And then the storm.

Father stopped mid-stride. His shoulders straightened; he faced the barn, back to me. The night froze. Only the flames moved, fighting this shift in time, refusing to concede their riotous anarchy. I don't know what chaos raged in his mind. I would like to think it was blank, that there was nothing there-the idea came not from himself, but from the fire, a flaming notion that licked out from the destruction and struck the coiled terror inside of him. Father was not in control of himself, would never remember it, would stare at the burn scar on his hand and laugh when we told him what he'd done. "Not me," he would say, as though another man-a fire man-had been there that night instead.

Time, frozen. When the clock started again, Father had moved. He was halfway to the government man, a flaming piece of wood clenched in his fist. The government man watched his approach, confused, stuck in a mire of heat and hatred. The deputies twisted, equally shocked. Only the Sheriff had kept pace with the lapse in time. He moved in front of Father, didn't draw his gun, just stood there.

Father didn't see him. I'm sure of it. He would have walked straight over the Sheriff if the latter hadn't punched him in the face. No warning, no words of caution. No, "Rick, I'm so goddamn sorry." A solid blow, to Father's left cheek. He crumpled, fell on the wood, put out the fire. The Sheriff stood over him, expressionless. He looked up at me, nodded again.

They left. I went inside. Father sat in the grass and gravel, watching the barn until the flames extinguished themselves just before dawn. The sun struck the eastern horizon on the other side of the wreckage, a new fire. I was up to watch it spread across the fields. Nothing escaped. Everything burned.

Daniel Davis was born and raised in Central Illinois.  His work has appeared in various online and print journals.  You can find him at www.dumpsterchickenmusic.blogspot.com.