The Harvesting (4 page)

I climbed up the side of the hill. How
many times had I fled to the woods and hiked to the Point? It was
an escape. It was a peaceful place. I wound through the mountain
laurel and over the mossy rocks up the side of the hill. The fallen
autumn leaves, warm under the sun, provided the effervescence of
decay. I felt the grainy grit of limestone and tree bark as I
grabbed for hand-holds to pull myself upward. Finally, I got to the
top of the hill. Now all I needed to do was scale the boulder that
capped it. I had done it a hundred times. I knew every foot- and
hand-hold. I pulled myself toward the top.

I was treated to a vista of autumn
leaves. The cool wind whipped hard, blowing my hair around me. I
looked toward town, but it was a long ways away. With the naked
eye, I could easily make out the streets and rooftops. I could see
people in the streets, but something seemed off. It looked like the
Jamesons’ house was on fire.

I pulled out the binoculars, making
some minor adjustments, and looked down. The Jamesons’ house was on
fire and so was the flower shop next door. There were people all
over the streets. Most of them were not moving. I could not see
their faces clearly, but they looked sick. They were pale and
bloody. I scanned over to the Catholic Church. The bell was still
ringing. A few people stood outside looking at the building. The
pandemic had come. How long had I slept?

Then I heard a popping sound. It was
coming from the lower end of town. I scanned and saw a group of
about fifteen people running toward the community building. They
were shooting behind them. A horde of maybe twenty or thirty people
followed them. They ran, shot, and ran more. Someone fell down. The
horde behind swarmed over them, and I saw a flash of red blood. I
nearly dropped the binoculars.

Again, gun shots rang out. Another
group emerged from a side street. My heart sank. Ian was there;
Kristie was beside him. Ian’s older brother, Jamie, was with him,
and so were Summer and Ethel. They joined the larger group, and
they all headed toward the community center.

I sat down on the boulder. My senses
were on edge. I could hear every bird and insect around me. My
system, sensing danger, had gone into over-drive; yet, there was no
danger near me. I was isolated. But Ian, he was in trouble. The
group entered the community center, but a huge horde circled the
place. Drawn by the sound of gunfire, the sick began to gather and
claw at the windows and doors. The place was completely
surrounded.

I lowered the binoculars. My hands
felt ice-cold. A cold wind whipped through me and a feeling like
electricity filled the air. It was that same strange static buzz
I’d felt the day I had arrived.

“
Help them,” a male voice
said from behind me.

I leapt up, nearly losing my balance
and going over. I righted myself at the last moment. I found myself
staring at and staring through the figure of a Native American
chief in full ceremonial regalia. He was young, very handsome, and
his feathers and beads were braided into his long hair. He was
clearly there and clearly transparent all at once. He knocked an
arrow on his bow, and the illusory weapon shot directly toward
town. I watched the arrow fly toward the community building and
then fade.

I turned back.

“
Help them,” he said
again. Another strong wind swept through. Like he was made of sand,
the chief’s image blew away, disintegrating back into the wind,
until nothing but the image of the bow remained. Then, it too
faded, blowing back into the realm of the spirit.

Chapter 5

My whole body shook as I raced through
the woods to the cabin. My mind was in a fit of fear and
adrenaline. I clambered over the back fence and rounded the barn. I
was about to call for my grandma when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher,
whose farm was closest to our cabin, standing, just standing, in
the driveway. The driveway gate was slightly ajar. I gasped and
slid back behind the barn. I could not get to the house. I could
not get into the barn. I checked my pockets. My car keys were
there.

Quickly, I ran from the side of the
barn to my SUV. The “beep beep” of my doors unlocking woke the
Fletchers from their sick slumber. They both turned and lunged
toward me. They were amazingly fast. I ran. I opened the back
passenger door and jumped into the backseat. I slammed the door
shut behind me, locking the doors with a thump. The Fletchers were
at the SUV in moments.

They were sick or maybe even dead.
Their skin was corpse white and their eyes were cloudy white with
red blood shots striking through. Their mouths frothed and they
lunged, over and over, biting and snapping at me. Bloody saliva
smeared across the black-tinted windows of the Range
Rover.

I could feel my heart beating in my
throat. I climbed over the backseat and into the cargo space.
Suddenly I touched something hard. My swords. Who says it doesn’t
pay to be a medievalist? I pulled the shashka from the bundle and
strapped its scabbard around my waist. Then I unsheathed the
weapon. I had to find my grandmother.

The Fletchers were flailing about at
the passenger side window. I took a deep breath and opened the
back. I slid out and headed toward the driver’s side. The Fletchers
moved toward the back of the SUV. Dropping low, I swung around the
front of the car. They were at the back. I leaned down and watched
their feet. I didn’t know what to do, but I needed to do something
fast.

I took a few deep breaths and turned
toward the house. With the shashka poised in front of me, I kept
one eye on the Fletchers as I backed toward the cabin. The moment
they saw me, they closed in.

“
Stay back!” I said, but
they did not seem to hear. They came toward me, grabbing at me,
snapping while bloody saliva dripped from their mouths. I swished
the sword in front of me to deter them, but they didn’t seem to
care.

Mr. Fletcher grabbed at me.

“
Get back,” I pleaded as I
backed toward the porch. He lunged forward. I sliced his arm, but
it did not faze him. His wife hissed and swiped at me.

He grabbed at me again. This time he
ignored the sword entirely and pushed the blade aside as he tried
to grab me. I watched in horror as the shashka sliced his fingers
off. They fell to the ground. Mrs. Fletcher, her feet bare and
bloody, stepped on them as she advanced. I ducked and dodged
sideways. They pursued.

In that moment, I remembered what the
man from the CDC had said: “brain activity.” Victims were
experiencing “brain activity” post-mortem. Was that what I was
seeing?

They pursued me to the cabin steps. I
quickly ascended to the top of the stairs. I looked down at those
who had once been my neighbors.

“
I’m sorry,” I said, and
having no other choice, I let the blade sing. Mrs. Fletcher was
closest to me. Taking a couple of steps back, I made a running
jump. I cleared the stairs, slicing off the top of her head as I
passed. I turned as I landed. My cut had been a good one. Her erect
body stumbled in a circle then fell. Mr. Fletcher let out a strange
howl and then lunged. With an under-hand to over-hand spin, the
shashka twirled through the air; I sliced his head in half. He fell
instantly. They both lay on the ground, jerking spastically. After
a few moments, they fell still.

“
Grandma!” I screamed.
“Grandma!” I ran into the house, weapon in hand, but she was
nowhere to be seen. My mind half bent on Ian and the other half
worrying about my grandmother, I headed to the barn and the guns. I
grabbed the weapons, sliding the shashka back into the scabbard and
stuffing the Glock into a holster. I strapped the Colt around my
shoulder and took the safety off the Magnum, holstering it as well.
I grabbed three grenades and stuck them into my vest pockets. I
headed out of the barn. As I turned the corner, I found myself
face-to-face with what had once been my grandma. Her face was as
pale as the moon; her eyes were an occluded mix of pearl white and
veiny red. White froth dripped from her mouth.

I heard my grandmother’s
voice inside my head:
Kill me.

I raised the Magnum. Just as my
grandma lunged at me, I shot her between the eyes. She fell with a
thud.

You see, my darling,
kill-shot,
I heard her say, and then I
heard her no more.

Her body twisted once and then fell
into a peaceful slumber. I dropped to my knees beside her. Every
fiber of my being wanted to pick her up and hold her. But then I
remembered, the man from the CDC had said to avoid physical
contact. I saw she had terrible bite marks on her hands.

“
I love you,” I whispered
and then rose, wiping tears from my eyes. I went to the tack room
at the side of the barn and opened the door. There I found a Yamaha
dirt bike, another of Grandma’s recent purchases. I jumped on. It
started with a kick. Careful to close and lock the gate behind me,
I gunned the engine and peeled down Fox Hollow Road.

Chapter 6

Fox Hollow Road emptied at the base of
Morrigon Hill. I sped up Morrigon Hill, making a sharp right toward
the elementary school. I drove across the playground. At its other
end, I found myself perched at the top of Kelly Street which looked
down toward the community center. There were 50 or more undead
outside. The crush of them had nearly broken down the door. The
only other exit, the door to the medical center, was also
surrounded.

Help them. I breathed deeply—in, out—I
turned the bike and gunned it.

Moments later I dropped down onto Main
Street. Around me, five or six of the diseased were moving toward
the community center. I pulled out the Glock. “Brain activity,” the
man had said, “brain activity.” I raised the gun and fired directly
toward the brain as the undead lunged at me. The first three shots
were a hit. For the last two, I missed and missed again. Finally, I
took down the woman. Just as he reached me, I managed to hit an
over-sized man who I did not recognize until the last second as Mr.
Lewis, the hardware store owner.

Distracted by the gun shots, some of
the undead at the community center turned toward me.

“
Please, please help me,”
I whispered, not sure who I was praying to. I pulled out one of the
grenades and gunned the bike again. I dodged a few of the undead
who tried to grab me, getting in as close as I could to the
community center and the mass of undead crowded there, then slowed
the bike for a split second. Pull the pin. Toss. Hit the
gas.

The bike tire squealed as I hit the
gas hard, turning toward the baseball field across from the
community center. Seconds later the grenade exploded. The bodies of
the undead flew everywhere. The roof of the community center porch
collapsed, trapping others.

Looking dazed, a group of about twenty
or so undead began walking toward me. I sat still, letting them get
a fix on me. Once they had clustered closely, I lobbed another
grenade then tore out of there. It exploded with a bang that made
my ears ring. Once I had gotten out of harm’s reach, I stuffed a
cartridge into the Colt. I hit the gas, speeding back onto Main
Street. I was then thankful I had spent my youth and early adult
life in fencing practice. With balance and dexterity that can only
be acquired over time, I managed to drive with one hand and shoot
with the other. I set off a spray of bullets into the remaining
undead who wandered about aimlessly, confused by the sounds. I
peeled the bike around and made a second pass, shooting any
newcomers drawn in by the sound. At last, after several more shots,
I didn’t see any more of the undead moving. The place was
still.

I pulled the bike into the parking lot
and unsheathed the shashka. I stared at the building. I was only
thirteen when my grandmother and I had come to the community center
for a white elephant sale. Ethel, who was manning a food pantry
benefit table, had asked my grandma if she could bring by a few
donations. Grandma always had more knick-knacks than anyone could
need. She’d come up with a box full of trinkets.

“
What is a white elephant
sale?” I remembered asking my grandma.

It was a windy spring day. It had been
raining all morning, and light mist still dampened the air. Much to
my teenage embarrassment, my grandma had donned her heavy yellow
rain slicker and put on a plastic rain bonnet. She also wore three
pink curlers in the front of her hair. No matter how long she wore
those same three pink curlers, her bangs never curled. I stayed
huddled under a partially broken black umbrella. Grandma had tried
to give me a rain bonnet, but I couldn’t take the humiliation. I’d
opted for the umbrella instead.

“
Ehh, it is like a yard
sale. People sell their junk to each other,” she replied as we
walked toward the entrance.

“
But why white
elephant?”

“
All a white elephant does
is stand around, eat, and get looked at. What good does it do
anyone?” she answered as she pushed open the door.

The room was full of treasure hunters,
tables loaded down with tchotchkes, and town
busy-bodies.

“
Look around,” my grandma
directed as she headed toward Ethel’s table.

I waved at Summer who sat beside her
mother and then went on a hunt for white elephants. Grandma was
right. The place was full of junk. I passed table after table of
figurines, old, dirty toys, out-of-fashion gowns, half-broken
luggage, and assorted crafts. On one table, however, I found
something unique. Mr. Beecher, a reptile of an old man, had
recently closed up his antique shop. Displayed on his table, he had
a number of left-over oddities. At once I was drawn to an old sword
that lay amongst fishing gear, pocket knives, antique pens, and
stainless steel lighters. I lifted the sword, but Mr. Beecher
cautioned me.