Authors: Anthony Izzo
Evil Harvest (31 page)
“You both can’t go,” Jill said.
“Someone should stay here. No sense of us all getting killed down there,” Harry said.
“Why don’t Jill and I go? She can drive while I fire.”
Harry got a wounded look on his face.
“Harry, we need you up here. You know these weapons better than anyone, and I don’t want to lose you down there.”
“Yeah, I guess I do know them better than anyone,” Harry said.
“Let’s go then.”
They rounded up an M-16, some grenades for its launcher, and Matt’s nine millimeter, which felt woefully inadequate against the enemy they were facing.
Matt and Jill stepped into the fog, now deteriorating into yellowish wisps, allowing them to see patches of trees through the murk.
They climbed into Harry’s Lincoln, Jill behind the wheel, Matt leaning out the passenger window, ready to fire the M-16 at the first sign of movement in the woods.
Jill maneuvered the Lincoln down the hill, the high beams glaring off of the remaining fog.
Matt heard movement in the woods to his left, but the intruders remained unseen, and there was no way to get a clear shot. He’d be wasting ammunition.
He hoped Harry was ready for them, and he wondered if they made a mistake by leaving someone alone up there.
Jill drove fifty more feet, and the road began to curve, getting steeper.
Matt saw the Ford tipped on its side and caught a whiff of gasoline; the gas tank must’ve ruptured.
Then he saw them, lurching, big limbs carrying them toward the truck, no doubt ready to tear Donna apart. They were about a hundred fifty feet away. He knew he could fire the grenade launcher from about a hundred feet, minimum.
“Stop the car.”
The brakes squealed as she stopped, and one of the monsters looked up and furrowed its brow, scowling at Matt.
He aimed the rifle, intent on ripping it to shreds with a grenade. Realizing that he might catch the gasoline on fire, he decided to take a chance and fire anyway. They would get to Donna before he could pick any of them off with the rifle.
“I’m going to fire. Then I’ll go get her. Can you turn the car around on this road?”
“Yeah.”
“Do a three-pointer and be ready to roll. Here.”
He handed her the nine millimeter, hoping that they would stay away from the Lincoln. “Keep the car running. Hopefully I’ll be back.” They exchanged a quick smack on the lips and Matt stepped from the car.
He propped his elbows on the roof of the car and aimed the launcher.
He pulled the trigger and the grenade tore into the middle of them, spitting up dirt and sending two of them flying, as if they had jumped off a trampoline.
“Go!” he said to Jill, advancing across the road toward the truck.
She pulled the car away.
He had two more grenades, and he quickly opened the breach and reloaded with one of them.
One of them charged, an arm hanging at a crazy angle, the bones broken. It came at him with frightening speed, and even in the darkness, he could see the sinewy muscles in its legs pump.
Matt opened up with the rifle, hitting it in the chest, the beast still charging him. He had some idea of how a matador must feel.
He aimed for the head and skimmed one off the side of its skull, but still it came, leaping as it came within ten feet of him.
Purely on reflex he raised the gun and emptied most of the magazine into its gut. It landed on him, spilling him backward, his back scraping the ground.
Both of them were on the ground, and it prepared for another lunge. Matt released the empty clip from the rifle, slapped home another one and pumped the trigger as fast as his finger would allow. The bullets hit the thing in the head, snapping it back and spraying fresh blood on the ground.
Jill was turning the Lincoln around, swinging the lumbering vehicle back up toward the cabin.
It spasmed once more, then flopped onto its back in a final death agony.
Matt was on his feet and rolling again, ducking and firing into the mist, expecting one of them to charge at him any moment. He could hear them moving up the hill, branches crackling underfoot, tree limbs snapping as they were pushed aside. Harry had better be ready.
He reached the overturned truck and peered in the missing windshield. Donna lay inside, her limbs twisted and cramped against the dashboard. Her skin was the color of skim milk, and she looked ahead with a blank stare.
“Dominic?” she moaned.
“Not Dominic. Chirst, she’s in a bad way.”
The acrid smell of smoke and scorched wood drifted to him, as the forest lit up around the truck. His grenade launcher had started a fire, and the flames threw themselves against the fog like a movie against a screen, creating a glowing curtain.
He swept the rifle back and forth, watching for them.
In order to get Donna out of the truck, he would have to put the gun down, which he didn’t want to do. But even in the dark he saw her shirt was soaked with blood; if he didn’t get her out soon, she would die.
Propping the M-16 against the roof of the truck, he squeezed his torso into the cab and got Donna in a front bear hug. She whimpered.
“I’m sorry. This is going to hurt, me moving you like this. But I have to.”
“Okay.”
He counted three and pushed off the seat with his legs, pulling Donna out and on top of him. He rolled her over on her back, and for a second her eyes rolled white into her head, and he figured she was a goner.
It was only when she whispered, “Thanks for coming back for me, Dom,” that he knew she was still alive.
The smoke rolled around them, making his eyes water and his throat burn. He could see shapes moving in around them, shadows visible because of the flames.
He readied the gun and two of them charged out of the gloom.
Two short bursts cut them down at the knees, but they got up and raced at him again. It was way too close to fire the grenade launcher at them.
They were twenty yards away and he fired again, this time barely slowing them down.
He fired again, knocking one down, but the other, seemingly indestructible, kept coming and leapt at him, pinning him back against the truck.
Instinctively, his hand shot up to its throat, holding the head back, and more importantly, the jaws.
It pinned his left arm to the ground, and with his right he held the clacking jaws at bay.
Its warm, fetid breath blew in his face. The teeth were inches away, and if they connected, he could kiss what little good looks God had given him good-bye. He glanced at Donna, who lay motionless on the ground, moaning.
The creature’s weight compressed his rib cage, and a stitch burned in his side. It had to weigh a good two hundred and fifty pounds. His grip on its throat started to slip, and if he lost it, he was a dead man. It would probably go right for his throat.
The face pushed closer to his.
He had one chance.
He let the grip around its throat go and jabbed his finger into its eye, jamming the knuckle halfway into the socket.
The thing screeched and Matt wriggled away, but it still held firm to his wrist.
He was at arm’s length, the thing’s arm outstretched, pulling him as if the two were in a tug-of-war. He yanked, trying to pull away from it, but he was losing.
His feet slipped through the dirt, and he dug in with his heels, but it continued to reel him toward it.
More of them materialized at the edge of the woods, making noises that sounded almost like purring, perhaps anticipating the kill and the feeding.
He was going to die like his family did, at the hands of these abominations.
Another stepped up behind the creature that had him in the tug-of-war. This one stood well over six feet, maybe closer to seven. It ducked underneath a branch and angled itself between two trees so that its shoulders and back would fit.
He knew it was Rafferty.
They would be on him in a moment if he didn’t break free.
The knife. Use your knife.
With his free hand, he pulled the hunting knife from the sheath and it glittered in the firelight. He stepped forward toward the creature and swung the knife, burying it to the hilt in its throat. Its eyes widened and it gurgled before Matt pulled the knife out. When it let go of his arm he pulled away and scrambled over to Donna. The creature thrashed, swinging its arms and then falling to its knees, hands over its throat. The rest of them seemed transfixed by its death throes, as if they were astonished that someone had slain one of their own with only a knife. Matt took this as his opportunity to make a break.
With no choice, he slung Donna over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She groaned, and he felt the dampness seeping into his shirt and knew she was losing a lot of blood.
He reached for the M-16, pushing up off the ground with Donna on his shoulder, as if performing a barbell squat.
The creatures snapped out of their momentary daze.
Slipping around the front of the pickup, one of them charged, hitting the hood and scrabbling up the overturned truck, its claws screeching on the metal. It stood on the truck near the wheel well, perched and ready to strike. Every muscle in its body flexed.
Before it could pounce, Matt raised the gun, firing one-handed, the gun jerking wildly. One of the shots winged the beast and spun it enough so that it lost its balance before it leapt. It hit the ground short of him and growled.
He started back toward the road, his shoulder and arm burning from Donna’s weight, his lungs starting to ache. Part of it was from exertion, part of it from the fact that his heart was pumping at a thousand miles an hour from adrenaline. Collapsing now meant a very unpleasant death.
He summoned the voice of his drill sergeant, Hollis Daniels, inside his head.
You gonna quit on me now, boy-ya! I don’t want no pussies in my platoon. You quit now and you ain’t nothing!
Sergeant Daniels was quite the motivator, a six-five, two-hundred-fifty-pound black man from the Louisiana bayou. If he told you to shit Tiffany cuff links and then polish them, you did it. Calling up his drill sergeant’s voice gave him the extra juice to keep moving.
More of them were crashing through the woods, stomping over branches.
He made his legs move, but didn’t think it would be fast enough; they were coming like a hot wind on his neck.
One of them grabbed his shirt, scratching his back. The fabric ripped and he broke away, but not before hitting a root and losing his balance. He landed face-first in the dirt, Donna landing on top of him like a sack of concrete. Grainy dirt covered his lips, and he spat it out.
The gun bounced away, end over end, and landed five feet from him.
He rolled Donna off of him, and she lay on the ground like a rag doll, helpless.
He looked up and they stood over him like redwoods, amber eyes reflecting the burning forest like molten drops of lead.
The big one, the one he knew was Rafferty, pushed the other two away.
It bent over and took a handful of his shirt.
He took a swing and connected with its jaw. It felt like smacking heated marble; if he lived, he knew his knuckles would be swollen in the morning.
It spat in his face, a viscous yellow fluid that ran down his cheek. It smelled like raw sewage, and he gagged, forcing his gorge down.
The Rafferty-thing licked its lips, its tongue black and pebbled.
He prayed it would be over quickly, but he knew that was futile.
C
HAPTER
28
HAPTER
28
Hissing noises came from within the fog.
Harry was vaguely aware of their positions, for although the fog had thinned, it still provided cover for anything in the woods.
He stood ready at the window, peering into the yard, the spotlights shining down on the dark, hard-packed earth.
Crouched at the window, his back muscles bunched up, feeling like someone was wringing them out. Cold sweat covered his palms and his heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings. He squeezed the M-16’s handle as if to assure himself it was still there, hoping that his sweaty palms wouldn’t let the weapon slip and fail him at the moment of truth.
He didn’t like this scenario for obvious reasons, but there were other reasons too; it reminded him of Khe San. If he squinted hard enough, the pine trees turned to jungle. He remembered the B-52s coming during the day, flying too high for Charlie to hear them, the enemy unaware the big bombers were there until the deadly payloads rained on their heads. The enemy was different now—there weren’t twenty thousand NVA waiting to storm the cabin—but that didn’t comfort him.
The brush rustled and cracked, and Harry expected one of them to come plowing out of the woods at any second.
One of them tore out of the fog, a gray blur until it reached the spotlights. He felt the predatory eyes boring into him, oblivious to everything around it except its prey.
He fired several bursts, and the bullets struck, making it dance a jig, limbs flailing but still coming with locomotive power.
It fell and slammed into the cabin wall just below the window. Harry popped out the clip, reached beside him and grabbed another one.
It rose and lunged through the window, and Harry reared back, avoiding a bite aimed at his throat. It came around quick with its arm, battering the rifle from his hands.
The creature swiped again, not content with just knocking the gun away, but trying to remove his face instead. Harry ducked again, and the fish-hook claws whizzed past his right ear.
He reached out and grabbed the shotgun propped against the wall, at the same time stumbling backward, away from the creature.
Harry got his balance, steadied himself, then pumped the shotgun and fired. The buckshot hit the thing below the jaw, and it clutched its throat, wheezing through the wound as it sucked air, sounding like a drain unclogging. Blood poured from the wound, but it kept coming, throwing its leg over the windowsill and ducking into the cabin.
Harry pumped and fired again, vaguely aware of another noise under the din of the shotgun. His volley hit the beast in the face, tearing skin from the bone and sending it to the floor clutching its head.
Harry racked the gun, and it spat out an empty shell. Lowering the barrel, he pointed it an inch from the ruined face and pulled the trigger. It gave one last spasmodic kick and then was still.
In the midst of the chaos he felt a sick dread, wondering if he should have left Liza all alone. When she asked where he was going, he told her there were a few things that needed doing at the cabin before the fall and deer season. Loose floorboards, insulation that needed repair, setting mousetraps, things like that.
She had given him a look of suspicion, staring him down, waiting for him to crack like a dam that can’t hold any more water. On the rare occasion when he tried to slip a fib past her, he usually broke under the look and spilled the real story to her.
But this time he’d held against the raging river that was his wife.
Besides, if he had told her the truth she would have wanted to come along. Liza always wanted to be in on the action. She was too curious for her own good, and once she got a taste of something that piqued her interest, she dove into it headlong. If Liza found a subject she liked, she read every book on it, becoming an expert in no time.
She had seen a beastie one time, and he knew her curiosity overrode her fear of them. Most people who saw them and lived never wanted to see one again. She would want to be right by his side holding one of the shotguns. He imagined her safe at home, curled up on the couch in her green bathrobe with a cup of Earl Gray and some Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. It made him feel better.
He turned his attention back to the stinking hulk on the cabin floor.
He cocked his ear and despite the ringing in his head he heard something behind the cabin. It started off as a pounding noise, a steady
thump thump thump
, then turned into the high squeal of metal on metal. They had gotten around to the back of the cabin, and at first he thought they were taking apart Matt’s truck.
thump thump thump
, then turned into the high squeal of metal on metal. They had gotten around to the back of the cabin, and at first he thought they were taking apart Matt’s truck.
The noise continued and he realized what it was; they’d found the door to the shelter and the tunnel and were breaking it open. After a moment, he realized why only one of them had attacked the cabin head-on: so the others could sneak in through the tunnel. While the first one kept him busy, the others were coming up the tunnel.
So they
had
been watched yesterday.
had
been watched yesterday.
Stepping around the dead creature, he picked up a Molotov cocktail and fished a Bic lighter out of his pocket. After setting the shotgun down, he tilted the bottle at an angle, flicked the Bic and touched the flame to the rag. It gave off oily smoke, making Harry cough.
He yanked the trapdoor open and again cocked his ear, straining to hear them. Scratching, like chalk on cement; they were in the tunnel and they were coming.
Harry threw the Molotov cocktail hard, the glass breaking on the tunnel floor with a
chink!
The fire crackled, sending heat washing up out of the hole. He lit three more cocktails and fired them into the hole.
chink!
The fire crackled, sending heat washing up out of the hole. He lit three more cocktails and fired them into the hole.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said, looking upward. His father had built this cabin with nothing but simple hand tools and sweat. With one toss of a bottle, Harry was about to destroy the whole thing.
He stooped down, picked up the Defender, dug some shells out of his pocket and reloaded, clicking them home.
Then he backed up, keeping the shotgun aimed at the trapdoor. The ones in the tunnel squealed like pigs in a slaughterhouse. Fire was probably the only damn thing that scared them.
He picked up the M-16 from near the window, deciding that he could get off more shots with it and not have to reload as frequently as the shotgun.
The flames raced up the wooden ladder to the tunnel and caught the floorboards of the cabin, creating a ring of fire around the trap door.
The screeching in the tunnel got louder, and he bet it wouldn’t be long before one of them took a run at the flames in order to get up into the cabin. The way he saw it there were now two options; either stay in the burning cabin or go outside with them running around. Neither option gave him a warm fuzzy feeling inside.
The flames began to spread, lashing angry orange and yellow heat at him. They had spread six feet from the trapdoor, and now thick smoke began to fill the cabin.
The noises in the tunnel stopped for a moment (or was it he couldn’t hear them over the flames?). Then a guttural growl arose from the tunnel, and something big slammed into the floor, just beside the trapdoor.
A clawed hand, gnarled and flaming, shot out of the hole, its nails reaching for purchase. It got its grip and the other hand followed, the monstrosity pulling itself out of the hole like a man doing a chin-up.
The skin on one side of its face was scorched away, revealing raw pink tissue. It glared and him and screeched.
It wriggled itself out and came for him, scrambling low across the floor, a ripple of flames lighting up its back. It was too quick, and before he could raise the gun to fire, it knocked him down, racking his shoulder hard on the ground. He rolled onto his belly, intent on getting to his feet, but it squashed him to the floor.
Hot pain, like a heated nail, dug into his back and he screamed, doubting his friends would hear him.
Matt stared into the eyes of a devil, one that held his fate in its hands. The spreading flames cast an orange glow, bathing the demons in queer light, making it feel as if he had gone directly to hell.
The Rafferty-thing held him up, his feet a good six inches off the ground. The other beasts stood watching. Matt glanced sideways and saw some of them licking their lips in anticipation.
Looking the thing in the eyes, he said, “I know who you are. I should’ve cut your fucking head off when I had the chance.”
Its eyes narrowed in fury.
“Go ahead. Get it over with. Finish what you started in the park with my family.”
The grip on his shirt tightened. It raised its free hand, the claws hooked and ready to kill. Matt winced, preparing for the final blow.
Twin beams slashed through the remaining fog, the hum of a V-8 filling the clearing. The Lincoln swerved left, catching one of the beasts, sending it up the windshield and over the roof of the car. Upon impact, the grill crumpled like tinfoil.
Jill swerved right and Rafferty tried to leap out of the way, but the fender grazed him and knocked him to the ground. Matt fell to the ground, free of Rafferty’s grip.
Jill threw the door open and fired the nine millimeter, catching one of them in the throat and sending the others scattering.
Matt got to his feet, opened the rear passenger door, and dragged Donna’s limp body into the backseat. She flopped inside and her head lolled at an angle. Then he scooped up the M-16, Jill ducking inside and closing the door as one of the monsters plowed into the side of the Lincoln.
Rafferty rose to his feet, stood in front of the Lincoln, raised his arms and half-howled, half-screeched. Then he made two fists and slammed them on the Lincoln’s hood, dimpling the metal.
“Get us the hell out of here!” Matt yelled.
If Harry weren’t still back at the cabin, he would’ve told her to tear ass down the hill and take off down Route 16, but they couldn’t leave Harry behind.
Jill put it in reverse and floored it, the suspension bouncing like a pogo stick as it hit the incline at the side of the road. One of the beasts leapt onto the trunk and Matt shot it off, blowing out the rear windshield and spattering glass on himself and Donna. The shards stung his hands.
He brushed the glass off her face; her cheek felt like cold modeling clay. Her skin was ashen, and there were dark circles under her yes. She was dying, and if not for the slight rising and falling of her chest, he would have thought her already dead.
Jill cranked the wheel, backing up out of the woods and onto the road, facing the cabin. White steam puffed from the front of the now crumpled hood, and Matt knew the radiator had taken a fatal blow.
Please, Lord, let this car get us to the top of the hill.
Jill pushed hard on the accelerator and the Lincoln chugged on.
Another creature burst out of the woods, and Matt fired at it, sending it to the ground momentarily. It got to its feet, dragging a wounded leg behind it as it climbed the hill.
He had to come up with a way to get Harry from the cabin, get to the pickup truck, and get them all down the hill without getting ripped to pieces. It might come down to sacrificing himself, or at the very least putting himself in harm’s way, but it was something he was willing to do. He wasn’t thrilled about the idea, but he would do it if necessary.
They reached the edge of Harry’s driveway, and when he saw the cabin, Matt actually twitched in surprise.
Flames lashed out from the window and thick smoke rose in mini-cyclones, creating a black curtain around the cabin. The glow from the fire had to be visible from the road, and someone would be calling the fire department before too long. Those firefighters would be in for one hell of a shock when and if they got here.
They were within fifty feet of Matt’s pickup truck.
“It’s not gonna go much farther,” Jill said.
“Keep pushing. We’re almost to the truck.”
As if the car had read Jill’s mind, it gave a dying cough, a bang and then it stopped in its tracks. Puffs of steam rose from the grill. Matt was surprised the Lincoln made it up the hill at all. That said something for American-made cars.
“I’ll get you and Donna to the truck.”
A look of panic crossed her face. “What about you?”
“I’m going into the cabin for Harry.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” she said.
He slapped a fresh clip into the rifle. “Fine. We might actually be safe for a little bit if we stick near the cabin. The fire will keep them off of us for a few minutes.”
He bent across the seat and kissed her quick.
The thinning fog gave the effect of looking through a dirty glass with milk residue on the sides. Through the blown-out rear window of the Lincoln, Matt saw them standing in a semicircle at the top of the ridge, spaced about ten feet apart. The biggest one of them, the one he knew was Rafferty, stood in the center. Matt hoped that it was the fire keeping them at bay, that they weren’t just biding their time and waiting to attack, knowing they had the cabin hemmed in.
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