The Harvesting

The Harvesting

Melanie Karsak

The Harvesting

Published by Steampunk Press at
Smashwords

Cover art by Michael Hall
Photography

Copyright © 2012 Melanie
Karsak

All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be used or reproduced without permission from the
author.

This is a work of fiction. All
characters and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblances to
the living or the undead are purely coincidental.

This book is available in print at most
online retailers.

.

Dedication

For Erhan

Without you, I’ll never survive the zombie
apocalypse

.

Acknowledgements

With special thanks to
Michael Hall, Susan Houts at Local Celebrity Public Relations
Agency, José Otero, Naomi Clewett, and Catherine Amick

Chapter 1

“
If you ever need to slice
someone’s head off, this is the blade you want,” I said as I lifted
a curved sword off the table in front of me. “We’ve been practicing
épée and foil so far, but tonight I want to introduce you to the
sabre.” The practice sabre’s curved blade reflected the orange
streetlight shining in through the window. A grant from the
Smithsonian where I worked allowed me to teach my two passions:
ancient weapons and their arts. “The sabre is a slashing weapon,” I
continued and then lunged, showing the wide-eyed and excited
students a few moves. “And in general, it’s my favorite,” I
admitted with a grin.

The students laughed.

“
Is that why you have it
tattooed on your arm?” Tyler, one of my best fencers,
asked.

My hand went unconsciously toward the
tattoo. The ink was a sword interlaced with other once-meaningful
symbols. “That’s not just any sabre,” I said, mildly embarrassed.
“Here, let me show you. I brought something special tonight.”
Setting the training sabre down, I lifted a rolled bundle. I laid
it down on the table and unrolled it to reveal weapons in various
elaborate scabbards.

“
Some are épée, foils—you
can tell by the hilt—a broadsword, a claymore, a katana, a
scimitar, throwing daggers,” I said, pointing, “but this, this is a
Russian shashka.” I pulled the shashka from the bundle. “It’s like
a traditional sabre, but has no guard. She’s light, single-edged,
wielded with one hand, and good for stabbing or slashing. Not
awkward in close quarters like a Scottish claymore, but it will
kill you just as dead,” I said with a smile. I unsheathed the
weapon and gave it an under- and over-hand spin around my head,
shoulders, and back.

The students grinned from ear to
ear.

I put it back in its scabbard and
handed the shashka to them. “Pass it around, but keep in mind it is
sharp enough to cut a blade of hair in half.” I then turned my
attention to Tyler. “Now, since you’re so interested, let’s see how
you do with the sabre.” I tossed one of the training swords to
him.

Tyler, already in his gear, jumped up
and lowered his fencing mask. “But you’re not in gear,” he
said.

I shrugged. “Hit me--if you
can.’”

We stood at the ready, made the
ceremonial bow, and began. Tyler was not overly aggressive, which
is partially why he was so successful. He waited for me, moving
slowly. He was smart, quick, and often tried to over-tire his
opponent.

I waited, dropped my sword a bit, and
let him make the lunge. He took the bait.

The swords clanged together, and we
clashed back and forth across the strip. He lunged and slashed
while I dodged and blocked. He was fast. I was faster. When he
lunged again, I ducked. With an upward movement, I went
in.

“
A hit,” Kasey
called.

They clapped.

“
Man, that’s what you get
for taking on a former state champ—and the teacher,” Trey told
Tyler with a laugh.

Tyler pulled off the mask and smiled
at me.

Just then, my cell rang. I would
usually ignore it, but something told me to answer.

“
Everyone pair up and
start working with the training sabres,” I said and pointed to the
sword rack. I went to my bag and grabbed my cell.

Before I could say hello, she
spoke.

“
Layla, Grandma needs you
to come home,” my grandmother’s voice, thick with Russian accent,
came across through static. I was silent for a moment. My
grandmother lived 500 miles away, and she never used her telephone.
With the exception of her T.V., she hated technology. She’d cried
and begged me to take away the microwave I’d purchased for her one
Mother’s Day.

“
Grandma? What’s
wrong?”

“
Come home now. Be here
tomorrow,” she said. She hung up.

I lowered my cell and stared at it.
Confused and worried, I dialed her back. The phone rang, but she
did not answer. I had obligations: practice, bills to pay,
groceries to buy, tons of work to do, and a date for god-sakes. But
my grandmother was the only one I had left in the world.

“
Sorry, guys. Emergency,”
I called to my students.

Disappointed, they groaned.

“
Sorry. Let’s pack it up
for the night.” My hands shaking, I slid the shashka back into the
bundle and rolled up the weapons. What had happened? Maybe Grandma
was sick. Maybe she had some problem. Or maybe she had seen
something.

The monuments on the Mall faded into
the distance behind me as I made my way to my Georgetown apartment.
It was Friday night. Wisconsin Avenue was packed. The upscale shops
and restaurants teemed with people. In the crowd you could see the
mix of international tourists, Georgetown students, and
designer-dressed hotties headed to clubs. I sighed. For the last
month I had turned myself inside out trying to get the attention of
Lars Burmeister, the German specialist the Smithsonian had brought
in to consult on our new medieval poleaxe exhibit. He had finally
asked me to dinner; we were going to meet at Levantes, a Turkish
restaurant near Dupont Circle, at nine that night. I had dreamed of
authentic dolma and a chance to sit across from Lars somewhere
other than a museum. I had even bought a new dress: black,
strapless, come-hither.

I circled my block three
times before I finally found a parking space. Regardless, I loved
Georgetown. It was early fall. The mature trees had turned shades
of deep red and orange and were losing their leaves. The air was
filled with an interesting mixture of smells: the natural decay of
autumn, dusty heat from the old cobblestone streets, and the mildly
rancid odor of too many people. In my 4
^th
floor attic apartment of an
old Brownstone, I could occasionally catch the sweet scent of the
Potomac River. It reminded me just enough of home.

The apartment was ghastly hot. The
small, one-bedroom had been closed up all day. I lifted the window
and let the noise of the city fill the room. The street lamps cast
twinkling light across my apartment. The weapons I had mounted on
the wall, swords, shields, axes and the like, glimmered. I peeled
off my sweaty practice clothes. Pulling a bag from the closet, I
threw in several changes of clothes and a few other supplies. On my
coffee table, my laptop light blinked glaringly. An overflowing
email inbox, an article on bucklers that needed editing for a
peer-reviewed journal, and a PowerPoint on Medieval Russian swords
for a presentation for next week’s symposium all called me. My
coffee table was stacked with paper. I was flooded with work; half
my department was out on sick leave. There was a bad flu was going
around. Thankfully, I had not yet gotten sick.

I pulled my cell out of my bag. I
stared at the phone for a moment; Grandma’s recent call was still
displayed on the screen. I dialed Lars’ number. My stomach shook
when he answered.

“
Guten abend, Lars. It’s
Layla.”

“
Ahh, Layla, good
evening,” he replied.

I loved his German accent. He’d
learned English from a British teacher; he said arse with a German
lilt. It made me smile. I could tell by his tone he was trying to
hide his excitement. I didn’t let him get far. I told him I had
been called away for an emergency. I could sense his
disappointment.

“
I’ll be back by Monday.
Let me make it up to you. Dinner at my place Monday
night?”

He agreed.

“
Gute nacht,” I said as
sweetly as possible, hoping I had not pissed him off, and stuffed
my phone into my bag. I stared out the window taking in the view. I
did not want to go back, not even for a weekend. I loved my life.
Hamletville was an old, ghost-filled place: too many memories, too
much heartache. Yet I knew my grandmother. If she said I needed to
come home, then I needed to come home.

I closed the windows, slid on a pair
of jeans, a black t-shirt, boots, and a light vest. I looked again
at the display on the wall. At the center I had crossed two Russian
poyasni or boot-daggers. One dagger had the head of a wolf on the
hilt. The other had the head of a doe. I grabbed them and tossed
them in my bag. I then headed back downstairs and into the night.
It was the last time I would lay eyes on D.C. for many
years.

Chapter 2

Hamletville. My grandmother had
travelled from the Mother Country all alone. When she arrived in
New York, she got on a westbound train and stayed on until “the
spirits told me to get out at Hamletville, so I got out.” She’d
purchased as much land as her money could buy: 100 acres backed up
to a National Forest. She said she felt safe there. While her
profession was a seamstress, her true talent was as a Medium. And
according to the children of Hamletville, she was also a
witch.

My grandma, however, had done her best
to raise me. When my mother ran off with the town drunk—and who
knows who my father was—my grandmother had not batted an eyelash.
She moved me into the Fox Hollow Road cabin and took care of me. My
mother never came back.

I was sleepless, smelled
like Doritos, and had drunk far too much bad coffee, but almost
eight hours later my SUV rolled into the small town of Hamletville
where I’d grown up. It was like reliving a bad nightmare. Memories
of an only occasionally happy childhood and even worse youth lived
on every corner. When I drove past
his
shop, my heart still hurt—even
four years later. I strained my neck to try to catch a glimpse of
him but saw nothing.

My Range Rover easily took the bumps,
turns, holes, and trenches of Fox Hollow Road. Guilt overwhelmed me
when I arrived. It had been almost a year since I’d been back. My
grandmother’s lawn had not been mowed in ages; weeds were knee
high. Some shingles had come off the roof, and the place looked
even more like a witches’ cabin than ever. My grandmother had
closed all the shutters on the house and had nailed boards across
most of them. Despite the fact the sun had just risen, my
grandmother was there, hammer in hand, working on barring up the
front picture window. She was wearing a purple checked dress, and
her hair was covered in an old yellow and blue flowered babushka.
When she saw me, she came off the porch and waived my SUV
forward.

My first thought was that she was not
well. Last year my assistant’s mother had entered early stages of
dementia and started displaying odd behavior. Perhaps my
grandmother . . .

“
No, no, Layla, Grandma is
fine. Come. Help me now,” she said, interrupting my thoughts as she
opened the door to my SUV. “Oh, Layla, you need a
shower.”

“
Of course I do, Grandma.
I just drove across four states to get here.”

“
Ehhh,” she muttered and
then led me into the house.

The scene was one of complete
disarray. It looked like she had unloaded every cupboard and was
sorting items.

“
Tomorrow the men come to
fix the roof and clean the chimney. Already I’ve had wood
delivered, but Layla, I had the men put it in the dining room. I
know, everyone thinks Grandma is crazy.”