The Harvesting (6 page)

“
Home. I need to bury my
grandma.”

Jamie set his hand on my shoulder. His
curly light brown hair, wet with sweat, stuck to his forehead. His
blue eyes shined in the sunlight. He inhaled then exhaled heavily.
“Sorry, Layla. Let me come help you.”

Grateful, I smiled. “Thank
you.”

“
You mind helping me with
a little favor on the way?”

“
Of course. What is
it?”

“
We have got to stop that
bell ringing, or I am going to lose my mind,” he said. The bell on
the Catholic Church still sounded its melancholy gong.

“
The world is ending, and
you’re worried about the bell?”

He smiled.

“
Alright. Hop on,” I said,
sliding forward.

“
You won’t even let me
drive?”

“
Are you kidding me?” I
said and kicked the engine on.

“
How humiliating,” he
muttered as he slid in behind me.

I parked the bike on the street in
front of the church. The bell clanged loudly. Two of the undead who
had been standing outside the church turned toward us. I downed
one; Jamie took out the other.

“
You always were a good
shot, Layla.”

“
Thanks to your dad. I
didn’t see--”

“
He didn’t make it.
Neither him nor my mom.”

“
I’m sorry. You and
Ian--”

“
Yeah, well, we all lost
someone. Come on. Let’s check it out.”

When we walked up to the ornate doors,
we both had a moment of realization. The place could be packed.
Every Catholic in town could have taken shelter there.

I pulled the machine gun over my
shoulder and stood ready several feet from the door.

“
Have any more
grenades?”

“
One. Let’s hope we don’t
need it.”

Jamie pulled out his handgun and then,
with a quick movement, yanked the doors opened.

We were half right; half the Catholics
in town were inside. I pulled the trigger, peeling off a spray of
bullets as the undead rushed out the door. Jamie fired into the
horde. Moments later the space was clear and a heap of bodies lay
outside the door.

“
Christ,” Jamie said
looking at the machine gun.

“
I don’t see how they miss
with these things in the movies. At 1000 rounds a minute, who can
miss?”

Jamie looked at the heap of bodies.
His face twisted. “I know half the people lying there,” he said. He
closed his eyes and turned from the sight.

I had been trying not to think about
it. “We don’t have much choice,” I said with more disconnect than I
actually felt.

“
After having to shoot my
mom a dozen times before I figured out I needed a head shot,
bumping off the meter man should be less jarring.”

“
Should? I don’t know
about that. You’re no killer. But I’m sorry about your mom,” I
said, setting my hand on his shoulder. Jamie and his mom had always
been very close, as close as Grandma and I. Grief tried to wash in.
I slapped the door closed. After a lifetime of practice, I was good
at doing that. I pulled out the shashka and looked up at
Jamie.

“
I’m ready,” he
said.

We went inside. An older woman I
recognized from the farmer’s market slowly crept out of the pew.
She bit and snapped at us. I motioned Jamie to hold back, and I
stabbed her through the eye. She dropped. We made our way toward
the back of the church. Again, I caught sight of the broken Mary.
It made me shudder.

We followed the winding halls to the
back of the church. There we found stairs leading up toward the
bell tower. Carefully, we walked up the plank wood spiral
staircase. The sweet scent of rough-cut lumber filled the air. When
we reached the top, we discovered why the bell kept ringing. Father
Ritchie had hung himself with the bell rope. His body swayed back
and forth.

“
Guess he decided not to
wait for the rapture,” Jamie said, “which can occur any time now,”
he added with a raised voice as he looked toward the sky. He waited
for a moment. “Nope, nothing,” he said with a sardonic
snort.

“
Maybe he thought he was
already in hell,” I said, and reaching upward, I sliced the rope in
half. Father Ritchie’s body fell on the wooden planks below. I
stared down at the once-benevolent face now frozen in the grizzly
visage of death. “I just saw him the other day. Grandma had me stop
by.”

“
Why?”

“
To ask for holy
water.”

“
For what?”

“
I don’t know.”

Jamie looked thoughtfully down at
Father Ritchie. “What do we do with him?”

I looked out the window. I noticed a
newly opened grave in the graveyard. “There,” I said,
pointing.

“
Well, it seems right to
bury him, but how in the hell are we going to get him
down?”

I smiled. “Put on your
gloves.”

Jamie lifted Father from the left
side. I lifted him from the right.

“
Something about this
seems wrong,” Jamie muttered.

“
1—2—3,” I said, and with
a heave, we dropped Father Ritchie out the tower window. He fell
with a thud on the ground.

“
Well, he’s already dead,
and he had the courtesy not to get up and walk around. I’m sure he
won’t mind.”

The church was clear when we exited.
We made quick work of a light burial for Father Ritchie and then
headed back toward the bike. On the way, however, we passed Mrs.
Winchester’s grave. I could not help but notice the dirt had
collapsed in. I stopped to look.

“
What is it?” Jamie
asked.

“
Mrs. Winchester was
buried here—or is buried here. Her grave is disturbed.”

Jamie stopped and looked with me.
Moments later, the soil stirred.

“
Christ,” Jamie whispered.
We watched in horror as fingers poked up through the soil. “How did
she get out of her coffin?” Jamie wondered aloud as he started
reloading his gun.

“
Ethel said they did a
green burial on her,” I replied and took a step back. My eyes
darted quickly around the graveyard. There were half a dozen or so
fresh graves. Were all the residents stirring?

A second hand appeared. It grabbed at
the grass, pulling the body upward. We stood frozen with shock as
Mrs. Winchester slowly dragged herself out of the earth. It was too
horrible. Her hair was covered in soil, and her flesh was drooping.
The rancid smell of decay wafted from her, turning my stomach. When
her head was finally clear of the ground, Jamie raised his gun and
fired; he hit her between her rheumy eyes.

With a gurgling cry, Mrs. Winchester’s
body, half out of the earth, went still.

“
Oh my god,” I whispered.
Tears flooded my eyes.

Jamie grabbed my hand. “Let’s
go.”

I took one last look at a woman who
had once been so kind to me, and then we walked away.

We set off back toward Fox Hollow
Road. We passed only one of the diseased and made short work of
him.

When we got back to the cabin, the
Fletchers’ bodies were still lying beside the steps, and Grandma
lay in front of the barn where I had left her.

“
I’m so sorry,” Jamie said
at the sight.

I nodded, and we got to work. Behind
the barn, we dug one wide grave for the Fletchers and a second
grave for my grandmother. Wearing gloves, we lowered the bodies in.
We covered the Fletchers first. Gross as it was, I retrieved Mr.
Fletcher’s fingers too. Then we lowered Grandma into her grave.
Once her eyes had been closed, my grandmother actually looked very
peaceful. I wanted to kiss her one last time, to feel the soft skin
on her cheek, but I dared not come too close to her flesh. I
started to cry.

Jamie wrapped his arms around me. I
turned toward him. He enveloped me in his thick chest, holding me
tightly against him.

“
I’m sorry,” was all he
could say. “I’m so sorry.”

Turning, I inhaled deeply. Composing
myself, I grabbed the shovel and began to cover my grandmother with
earth. Grief wracked me.

Now, now, it’s only a
husk,
I heard my grandmother
say.

I stopped and looked
around.

“
Layla?” Jamie
asked.

“
Did you hear
that?”

“
Hear what?”

I looked down at my grandmother. She
lay still in the repose of death.

“
Nothing,” I said and
began again.

Not long after, we
finished.

“
Why don’t you come in?
Drink something? Wash up?” I asked Jamie.

“
I should get back to
Ian,” he said.

I nodded. I opened the back of my SUV
and took out the weapons bundle. I then handed the keys to Jamie.
“Take my SUV.”

“
You sure?”

“
Well, it saved me once
already today. No doubt it will keep you safe too. Thank you,
Jamie, for everything. You’ve always been like the brother I never
had,” I said and leaned in to hug him.

A strange look crossed his face, but
he covered it quickly, returning my embrace.

“
I’ll be back tomorrow
morning. You can help me with the canvasing,” he said as he slid
into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. “Nice,” he said
with a smile as he ran his hand over the dash.

I grinned. I went to the gate and
pulled it open for him. “Stay safe,” I called. He waved. The gate
shut with a clang.

Moments later there was complete
silence. In the distance I could hear the stream gurgling and the
sweet sound of songbirds. The wind blew, picking up the earthy
autumn air. I turned to go back into the house but spotted my
grandma’s herb bag lying on the ground near the gate. I picked it
up and looked inside. She had picked a large bouquet of
wildflowers. Had she died for this, died for a handful of flowers?
I walked back to her grave and laid the flowers thereon. Then, all
at once, it hit me. She had not died because she’d gone to pick
flowers. She already knew how she would die. She’d already seen the
grave. She’d already seen the flowers. She’d just saved me the
trouble of picking them for her. All this time, she knew she was
not going to make it. Everything she’d done, she’d done to save
me—not her and me—just me.

Tears flooded my eyes. I allowed
myself a moment of grief and then pulling myself together the best
I could, I went inside. After all, “it’s only a husk.” She had said
it. And I had heard it. I had not imagined it. I had heard my
grandmother’s voice.

Chapter 8

For the time being, there was still
hot water and electricity. I took a long shower. Wrapping myself in
a thick white robe, I poured myself a large glass of vodka. The sun
had set. I flipped on the small living room lamp and sat down on
the floor. My cell had died—no signal—but the old mantel clock
showed it was nearly 11:00pm. The autumn air had a hint of chill in
it. I lit a small fire.

I knew I should eat, but I couldn’t
get myself to budge. I sat, staring at the fireplace. I tried to
process everything, but I felt completely overwhelmed. How had this
happened? What were we going to do? My grandma was gone.

The radio in Grandma’s room still
reported contamination and quarantine. After a while, I realized it
was the same news report I’d heard that very morning—it was a
looped recording. I tried the T.V. but there was only
static.

It must have been sometime after
midnight, and two glasses of vodka later, when I saw headlights
shine through the small cracks between the boards on the picture
window. I went outside to see a truck sitting on the other side of
the gate.

I grabbed a gun. “Who’s there?” I
called, the headlights blinding me.

At first there was silence. The driver
cut the lights and engine. “It’s Ian.”

My heart leapt to my throat. I grabbed
the flashlight, slid on a pair of slippers, and went to the
gate.

“
It’s late,” I
said.

His face looked haggard in the glow of
the flashlight.

“
I know. I’m sorry. I just
. . . can I come in?”

I unbolted the gate. I propped it a
little, letting him in, then locked it again. Wordlessly, we went
into the house. Once inside, I motioned him to sit in the living
room while I went to the kitchen to pour him a drink.

“
God, Layla, when did you
get the house all boarded up?”

“
Grandma,” I
replied.

“
Jamie told me about her.
I’m really sorry.”

I handed him a drink and sat down on
the couch beside him. He looked handsome but tired. His
straw-colored hair fell over his blue eyes. He had dirt smudged on
his chin and arms. His tribal tattoo showed from under his torn and
stained white t-shirt. I wondered if anyone else knew the tattoo’s
meaning.

“
I’m a mess,” he
said.