The Harvesting Page 3

  “Grandma?” I called again.

  I poured myself a glass of water and checked the rest of the house. Grandma was nowhere to be found, but the radio in her room was on. The announcer was listing names of cities now under quarantine. He might as well have said the entire United States.

  I went back to the living room. The front door was unlocked and unbarred; apparently, Grandma had gone outside. My head aching, I slipped on a pair of jeans and t-shirt. There was a chill in the air, so I grabbed my vest, pulled on my hiking boots, and headed outside.

  The driveway gate was closed but not locked. The church bell continued to ring. Its sound was shrill. I couldn’t find Grandma anywhere. Knowing her, she was in the woods digging up more mushrooms—we needed to have a serious talk about that. Strange she’d forgotten about the bacon.

  I checked the barn. She wasn’t there, but I spotted the binoculars I’d picked up at the hardware store. I grabbed them and headed to the back of the property. I scaled the fence and walked into the woods. A trail behind the cabin led in two directions; one direction led into the National Forest, and the other, if you scaled the mountain, led to the Point. The Point was the old Native American look-out on the mountain top. It looked over the town and across the lake.

  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 thr
ough 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.

  “Careful, little Ruskie, it’s sharp,” he said.

  I glared at him and pulled the sword from the scabbard. It was like love at first sight.

  My grandmother came and stood beside us. “A shashka,” she said. “Where did you find that?” she asked Mr. Beecher.

  “Auction,” he replied simply.

  “What you want for it?” Grandma asked him.

  Now Mr. Beecher looked serious. “Twenty.”

  “Ehh, no, no, no. I give you ten.”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I say I give you ten so I give you ten.”

  My grandmother never lost a negotiation. After a few more tries, Mr. Beecher finally consented, and Grandma started digging around her sewing bag for the money. Ten dollars did not seem like much, but for an old woman looking after a young girl, it was a fortune.

  “Just look. Only someone like that would buy a sword for a little girl to play with,” a woman sitting at the table next to Mr. Beecher whispered to her friend. The friend, a woman in a bright pink dress, laughed.

  The three of us looked at the women. Giggling, they looked away. I recognized the woman who had gossiped about my grandma. She’d been to our house before. My grandmother looked long and hard at them both. She then turned, smiled at Mr. Beecher as she handed him the ten, and nodded to me that it was time to go. Her hand on my shoulder, she directed me toward the door.

  “Thanks again,” Ethel, who had not heard the rude comment, called with a wave.

  My grandma smiled at Ethel but paused as we passed the gossips. “Next time you ask me if your husband is cheating, I won’t lie to save your feelings. Talk to your friend. She knows more about it than I do,” Grandma said. “You see, Layla, fools are not sown, they grow by themselves,” she added and then we left.

&n
bsp; With my white elephant in hand, I smiled up at my grandma.

  I moved toward the door of the community center. A few of the fallen bodies twitched. A woman whose arms had been blow off by the grenade snapped at me. A snarling man who’d been blown in half pulled himself toward me. With a heavy heart, I made short work of them. I climbed onto the collapsed roof and carefully made my way to the door. Before I reached the entrance, two more undead appeared. Taking careful aim, I shot them.

  When I got to the door, it was locked. I paused for a moment and then knocked.

  Jamie, Ian’s older brother, opened the door. “Holy Christ, Layla! Is the Army out there or what?” he said looking over my shoulder. Seeing nothing, he looked me over, weapons hanging from every part of my body. “Jesus Christ,” he said aghast and pulled me into a hug, dragging me inside. I suddenly felt overcome by everything that had just happened. I leaned heavily on Jamie. My body shook. I closed my eyes, but then realized everyone must have been looking at me. I took a deep breath and stepped back.

  I recognized most of the faces in the room. Neighbors, teachers, the Ladies Auxiliary, the firemen, all faces I knew though some names I did not quite remember. Several people were injured. The school nurse, Mrs. Finch—how white her hair had become—was going from person to person trying to stop blood loss and mend wounds.

  My eyes scanned the room for Ian. He was kneeling on the floor beside Kristie who was bleeding profusely from a shoulder wound. She appeared to be in intense pain.

  “Jamie, more will be drawn in by the noise. They are scattered everywhere, all over the town,” I said, forcing myself to look away, to focus on something else.

  Jamie nodded. “Alright guys, we need to post a watch until we get ourselves together. Everyone with a gun muster up,” Jamie called and then turned to organize the group

  Several of the men came up to me.

  “Was that you out there, Layla?” Tom, one of the firefighters, asked. Tom had been in Jamie’s class in school. Too shy to ask himself, he once sent his younger sister to ask me if I would go to a dance with him. Unfortunately for both Tom and me, I said no. I had a crush on a boy named Ian Campbell. As I looked up at Tom, however, I remembered that I’d always found his hazel eyes striking.