Harlan County Horrors (8 page)

Cullen carried a ridiculously large double-barreled shotgun.
At present, it was pointed at John’s head.

“
Why you here, Grey?” Larson asked.

“
To study,” John answered.

Cullen and Larson laughed. “We don’t want no studying. Why you
think we’re stuck ass-deep in these here hills?” Larson
said.

“
I
do not know,” John said. “Appalachian cultural history shows a
tendency toward xenophobia.”

Cullen looked at Larson. “Xeno-what?”

“
You got two choices, Grey. Tell us why you’re here and die
quickly. Or don’t tell us and die a slow, agonizing, painful
death.”

“
I
am an anthropologist,” John said. If the alien showed fear through
its voice, the box didn’t register it.

“
A
what?” Larson asked Cullen. “I got to tell ya, it might be fun to
set this one loose in the woods. Ol’ Blue hasn’t had a good hunt
all year.”

The
pair laughed and poked each other in the ribs.

Larson nodded at Cullen. “Cover me while I tie this ol’ boy
up.” The husky riverboat captain grabbed the alien and forced its
arms behind its back. He drew out two feet of hemp cord from a
baggy pocket and tied John’s arms together.

“
Is that necessary,” Jeremiah objected. “He’s not here to harm
nobody. He came to worship.”

Larson pushed John forward until all three stood in front of
the preacher. “You old fool, when was the last time you been up the
river? Twenty years? You have no idea what’s changed in that time,
what the Greys do. You haven’t seen the rows of crucified children
along the crumbling highways. You haven’t witnessed the execution
of women by flogging in the public squares. Next time you get to
thinking this Grey isn’t here to harm nobody, you think about that,
will you?” To accentuate his point, Larson lifted the nearest of
the pews and knocked it over. Hymnals and Bibles clattered across
the floor. “Come on, Cullen.”

They left, pushing the tiny alien in front of them.

Preacher Jeremiah climbed the rocky steps leading to his
grandson’s hovel. Like most of the community’s dwellings, Jake’s
home was built into the side of a steep, forested hill—the ground
flattened with only the strength and will of men, women, and tools.
The mud-hut wasn’t much to look at, but all the same, Jeremiah felt
that old vice of pride reach into his heart and swell. The boy had
done well with his life.

Jeremiah, paused, caught his breath and rattled the straw
curtain that served as the door during the spring season. He wanted
to kneel over, put his hands on his knees and gasp, but it wouldn’t
do for them to see him like that.

Jake’s wife came to the door. She pushed the curtain back and
invited the preacher inside.

“
Howdy, Jeanette. How’s the family?” The mundane was a great
stress reliever in times of crisis.

“
Oh, you know how they are. Momma’s down in her back, does
nothing but sits in that old rocker of hers and cusses at the flies
and wasps. She just ain’t been the same since Daddy
died.”

Jeremiah nodded, sadly. “I reckon not, Jeanette. Not many of
us are when we lose someone close.”

“
Jake is down at the creek gathering water,” she said, getting
to the crux of the visit and away from the depressing
talk.

Jeremiah liked the young woman. Strong at heart, not one to
dwell on past sadness. “I need to see him, it’s kind of urgent.
Think you can give him a holler?”

Jeanette smiled. “Of course, just a second.” She disappeared
behind the curtain and went outside. A few seconds later her deep
voice rolled out across the hillside.

“
Thanks,” he said, as Jeanette came back inside. She poured
him a cup of ginseng tea and took a seat at the table with him.
Jeremiah played with the cross he wore on a leather strap tied
around his neck, a nervous habit he had picked up during his many
trips…and prayers…while managing the boat upriver during the harsh
winter seasons.

As
he finished the last of the tea, a strapping young man appeared
with two aluminum pails filled with water. “Care for a drink,
Granddad?”

“
No thanks. I need to ask a favor.”

“
What’s that?”

“
I
need you and Jeanette to ride downriver with me.”

Jeanette let out a noise that sounded like a bark. Jake set
the buckets down and frowned.

“
Only Larson and Cullen are allowed downriver. You know the
rules. You used to be a captain.”

“
Of course I know the rules,” Jeremiah said. He slapped his
hand against the table in frustration. “A Shadow came into the
church this morning and they took him.”

Jeanette gasped. “One came into the church? I thought nobody
knew we existed.”

“
I
guess they do now. It said it wanted to worship with
me.”

“
You think Larson and Cullen are going to hurt the Grey?” Jake
asked.

“John, its name is
John
, and I think they plan on killing it.”

“
We can’t go downriver. If they’re going to kill…John, they’ll
do it before we even reach the mouth.”

“Maybe not,” the preacher said, “but we have to warn the
unive
rsity. John
says he is an anthropologist from Lexington. Don’t you see? When
John doesn’t return, the university will send someone else down to
investigate his disappearance. Are we going to let Larson and
Cullen kill that person, or that alien, too? Whatever the case,
more Shadows will come—they’ll make us leave Harlan. They won’t
understand we’re not all like Larson and Cullen.”

Jake stood up. He placed his hands on Jeremiah’s shoulders.
“Grandfather, how old are you? Eighty-seven? That’s a long time to
live, and I know you’ve seen a lot, done a lot more than I ever
will. But sometimes there’s nothing to be done.”

“
Jake…” the old man whispered.

“
And maybe Larson and Cullen know some things you don’t?”
Jeanette added, breaking her silence.

Jeremiah stood up, his knees popping, sending the pain of the
arthritis shooting through his body. He hugged his grandson. “I
know you mean well. May God be with you.” He nodded to Jeanette and
walked out through the straw curtain into the bright
daylight.

The
preacher slowly worked his way back down the hillside to his
church. What he saw almost made his heart fall through the pit of
his stomach.

Tied to a freshly built crucifix that had been planted right
in front of Harlan Baptist Church was John the Grey. Wood and brush
was being collected and deposited around the alien’s feet. Cullen
watched over the proceedings with a quiet menace and a shotgun
resting over his shoulder.

It
felt like it took his creaky old legs decades to reach the church’s
front lawn where, instead of alien burnings, they held their annual
summertime tent revival. Jeremiah’s heart pounded, black specks
invaded his vision. Dying would almost be worth not having to
witness this travesty.

Reaching the crucifix and the alien, he began to kick out the
shrubbery and boards of wood building up around John’s feet. Cullen
forced himself between the wild old preacher and their Grey
captive, before shoving him backwards to the ground.

The
shotgun was leveled at the preacher’s face. “Out of respect for who
you are, I’m not going to kill you tonight. But if you don’t get on
out of here, you might just go up in flames like this
Grey.”

“
You can’t do this. Anything but burning...” Jeremiah
objected. Cullen pressed the shotgun barrels against the preacher’s
forehead.

“
One more word, and I’ll send you to kingdom come.”

Jeremiah looked past the double barrels, into the placid face
of John the grey. A Kentucky yellow warbler landed on top of the
horizontal bar of the crucifix and skipped around, chirping a
beautiful melody. John looked up with his big almond eyes and
whistled.

Jake and Jeanette came rushing to the lawn and picked up their
grandfather by his arms.

“
You can’t let this happen, Jake,” Jeremiah pleaded. “We have
to go.”

A
crowd gathered around. Some brought more wood. Others just milled
around, somber faces unwilling to screw up the courage to object to
the pending murder.

“
Hush, Granddad. It’s just another one of your
fits.”

As
the evening faded to night, and the stars and moon made their
appearance in the heavens, Larson struck flint to an oil-soaked
torch. Jeremiah had discovered that Larson had dragged every single
member of their community to the show, all 128 of them, to bear
witness.

Jeremiah sat with his back against a grand old sycamore tree
that spread its branches over the yard and church. Men stood around
while chewing tobacco, participating in idle gossip with their
friends and neighbors. Children circled around him and the tree,
laughing as they played a new game called “catch the Grey.” Across
the way, he spotted little Mikey with his mother sharing a picnic
of buttermilk biscuits and chicken with blackberry pie for
dessert.

It
wasn’t until Larson took a spot in front of the crucifix that the
festivities ceased. For the second time that day, Jeremiah felt the
spirits chill his body.

“
Decades ago,” Larson bellowed to his congregation, “the
Collapse nearly destroyed our civilization. War, famine, plagues…”
Larson leveled his gaze at Jeremiah. “All of it in Biblical
proportions. Two years later the Shadows appeared, just in time to
become our saviors. And since those hard times, we have pressed on
in Harlan, relying only on ourselves, our families, our
friends.”

Larson turned around and faced John, the torchlight sparkled
in the alien’s eyes. “We must send a message to the race that
brought on the Collapse. We know what you did. We know
how.”

Preacher Jeremiah blocked out the rest. Jake started to hold
his grandfather back, but he backed down when his grandfather took
a path away from the crowd.

Jeremiah walked upwind of the senseless murder, of the
soon-to-be burning alien flesh. Was this truly senseless? Was there
any chance Larson and Cullen told the truth about what they had
seen? He couldn’t be sure. Nobody could be sure, at least not the
people in this community.

A
yellow warbler sang off in the distance. Or was that the sound of
John being burned alive?

Perhaps Larson and Cullen did know a few things. But the old
preacher man had learned his share of lessons during his years as
riverboat captain, as well. Most importantly, he knew the melting
flesh of a Shadow cast off a smoky neurotoxin strong enough to kill
a horse.

Now
he heard the screams. The sound of a double-barrel shotgun
firing—soon they’d all be dead. Like a modern day Sodom and
Gomorrah.

“
Kingdom Come”

Jeremy C. Shipp

Jeremy C. Shipp’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in over
50 publications, the likes of
Cemetery Dance
,
ChiZine
,
Apex
Magazine
,
Pseudopod
,
and
The Bizarro
Starter Kit
(blue).
While
preparing for the forthcoming collapse of civilization, Jeremy
enjoys living in Southern California in a moderately haunted
Victorian farmhouse with his wife, Lisa, and their legion of yard
gnomes. He’s currently working on many stories and novels and is
losing his hair, though not because of the ghosts. His books
include
Vacation,
Sheep and Wolves
,
and
Cursed
. And
thankfully, only one mime was killed during the making of his first
short film,
Egg
. Feel free to visit his online home at
jeremycshipp.com.

M
y filter
edits out the utility wires and pollution so I can truly appreciate
the view. And as foggy fingers caress the curves of the earth, I
think of heaven. Not the heaven I envision today, with walls and
guns and sentinels. No, I’m reminded of my childhood heaven, where
everyone wears flip-flops and walks on clouds.

I
was a stupid kid.

And
in my underdeveloped mind, I imagined my parents and my sisters and
me living together in a white castle, one big happy family again. I
knew this would never happen in my lifetime. But I thought if God
embraced my father, forgave him, then my mother would follow
suit.

Back then, I didn’t know much about my father. Sure, I knew he
was a coward. I knew he refused to fight. And I knew he was the
worst kind of man, because that’s what my mother told me. But I
thought I loved him anyway.

I
loved him even when my mother cried and told me she couldn’t go on.
And I tried to convince her life was worth living. I talked about
her favorite foods, and my good grades, and Christmas.

After my rambling, she would hug me and say, “You’re a brave
boy. If you were older, you’d fight for me. I know you
would.”

And
she was right.