Evil Harvest

by Anthony Izzo

  Staying low to the ground, he moved across the garage and listened at the door. There was silence on the other side, and he imagined Rafferty crouched on the other side of the entrance, the massive revolver waiting to blast anything that came through the door.

  He pumped the shotgun, guessing that he had two shells left to work with.

  Approaching the door, he held the shotgun in his left hand, out and away from his body. He would open the door with the right, stick the barrel in the door and fire blindly on an angle. Liza’s cell was straight ahead, and he felt confident the angle he took would keep the shot away from her.

  If he were lucky, he would catch Rafferty right inside the doorway and blow a hole in him.

  Ripping the door open, he jammed the barrel inside and fired, the gun bucking in his hand. It flew from his hand and landed next to the concrete steps leading up to the cell block. If Rafferty were behind the door, and Matt didn’t hit him, he would be dead in a matter of seconds, for he was now unarmed and exposed.

  Wrist throbbing, he picked up the gun and pumped it, the door wide open.

  The garage and the hallway were silent, save for the sound of his breathing.

  Rafferty was gone and Liza’s cell door was wide open.

  Outside, tires squealed on the blacktop and he knew he had been duped. He ran to the garage doors and peered out the window to see a Lincoln police cruiser speeding out of the lot with Ed Rafferty at the wheel.

  Approaching the hallway, Matt aimed the gun, ready for someone to charge him, or gunfire to erupt, but nothing happened. The only person in the cell block was the dead cop. Rafferty no doubt had Liza in the backseat.

  Inside the hallway, he rolled the dead cop on his side, unbuckled his gun belt, and put it on, tightening the buckle to the last notch. He wore it low on his hips the way Jesse James might have worn his six shooters back in the Old West.

  In his haste, Rafferty had left the keys in Liza’s cell door, and Matt pulled them out and stuck them in his pocket. Then he entered the squad room, expecting to find reinforcements, but finding only empty chairs and desks. If there were any other cops at the station, they surely would have come running when they heard shots fired in the hallway.

  The squad room was filled with standard issue gray desks and office chairs kept together with duct tape strapped over their wounded seats and backs. A white cup with a streak of dried coffee running down the side sat on the desk to his left, surrounded by a stack of pink and yellow forms. Only thing worse than cold coffee is warm beer, he thought, for no apparent reason.

  He wanted to find the room where they kept the big toys, more weapons like the shotgun, and more important, the ammunition for them. There was a door with frosted glass panes next to the receptionist desk that he tried and found locked.

  He pulled the key ring from his pocket, and the third key opened the door. Past the door was a narrow hallway, the walls painted yellow, two doors on the left and one on the right almost near the end.

  He was about to start down the hallway when he heard a soft mewling sound. It was coming from underneath the receptionist’s desk. He hadn’t noticed before, but someone’s lumpy, purple-clad rear end stuck out from underneath the cutout in the desk. The legs were in white support hose, and the shoes were chunky and black.

  “It’s okay. You can come out,” Matt said reassuringly.

  “Please don’t shoot me.”

  “I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “Promise?” A sniffle.

  “Promise. Come on out.”

  The woman shuffled backward, her purple skirt riding up. She stood up, never taking her gaze off the shotgun.

  “Relax. I won’t hurt you.”

  “But I heard shooting.”

  “I know. Listen, ma’am ...”

  “Linda.”

  “Okay, Linda. Do yourself a favor. Go home, pack some bags and get out of town. Something awful is about to happen and anyone who isn’t on Chief Rafferty’s side is going to get hurt. Understand?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Just get out. And if you have family here, tell them to leave too. Pronto.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Get going.”

  Linda opened the desk drawer, took out a black handbag roughly the size of Alaska, then shuffled quickly down the hallway and went out the front door. Matt hoped she would take his advice and leave town.

  He proceeded down the opposite hallway, one leading deeper into the station. Matt unlocked the door at the end with the fifth key on the ring. It was the room he wanted, and he had hit it on the first guess.

  He flicked the switch and the lights hummed to life, revealing racks of shotguns, assault rifles, tear gas launchers, Kevlar vests and riot gear. Scanning the room, he spotted what he was looking for; boxes of shotgun shells that were useable in the twelve-gauge he was carrying.

  Opening one of the boxes, he removed the shells and slid them into a bandolier hanging on the wall. He reloaded the shotgun, and draped the bandolier across his chest, Pancho Villa–style. Then he left the room, wishing he had time to grab more goodies.

  He opened the garage door, climbed into the sedan and started it up. Then he sped across the lot for Saint Mark’s Elementary.

  He parked one block over. Hoping no one would see him, he got out, carrying the shotgun, and jogged up the driveway of a red Cape Cod style house. Its backyard butted up against the rear of the school, with only a fence and three feet of concrete separating the two.

  He stubbed his toe on a turtle-shaped sandbox crossing the yard, but kept going, hopping the fence at the rear of the property. His wrist flared a bit, but he tried to block it out, along with all the other aches and pains he had acquired since returning to Lincoln.

  He slipped between the garage and the school building so that no one could see him from the house, then ducked and checked the frosted basement windows. He rattled them to see if they were open, but neither would budge.

  Going in one of the doors was unthinkable; Rafferty surely had guards posted at the doors, and even if he didn’t the chance of being spotted was too great. So he opted to smash a window.

  He lowered himself down into the basement of the school, dragging the shotgun in after him.

  A rusted boiler took up most of the room, with pipes and gauges jutting from the monster. Cobwebs covered its surface, giving the boiler a seedy, dangerous look, as if it could pull an unsuspecting child near and deliver a blistering burn.

  He started across the room, searching for a door (and unconsciously giving the boiler a wide berth) and ducking to avoid the pipes crisscrossing beneath the ceiling. Many a maintenance man must’ve uttered a curse after banging his head.

  Matt squinted in to the gloom and saw an opening. The heavy steel door that guarded the boiler room was wide open. Why the hell would someone leave the door to a dangerous room like this wide open?

  It occurred to him that something might have opened the door and gooseflesh broke out on his arms. What if one of them was down here, looking for intruders? Perhaps Rafferty went through and opened all the doors, allowing his creatures to roam the school and seek out any unwanted visitors.

  He raised the shotgun, gripping it until his knuckles were white.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” he said. Being this tense in a combat situation could get you killed. He was liable to blow a hole in his own foot being this wired up, but he couldn’t help it.

  Slipping into the hallway outside the boiler room, he caught a smell that reminded him of rotten eggs. And something else beneath it.

  The corridor extended fifty feet to his right, and the smell wafted strongly down the hallway. He could hear wet sniffing coming from that direction, the sound of a predator scenting prey.

  Had it smelled him already?

  There was a yellow door at the other end of the corridor, and he backed up toward it, taking a glance at the boiler room door and noticing the metal handle was
twisted like Play-Doh. It had been in this room, perhaps moments before he’d broken in. If he had gone in sooner, he might have been ripped apart as soon as he broke the window.

  Thank the Lord for small favors.

  He moved quicker, backpedaling toward the yellow door until he bumped into it. Keeping the shotgun pointed at the other end of the hallway, he reached behind his back and fumbled with the handle.

  Please in the name of all that is holy do not be locked.

  The door opened as the thing charged down the hallway, chuffing and growling.

  Matt slid through the door and backed up as fast as he could, banging against something, a table. There were several tables set up in rows, with metal chairs. A spiked flagpole with the Stars and Stripes draped from it stood near the door, and next to that another flagpole with a green-and-gold flag on it. He realized he was in the cafeteria.

  A second later, the door blew off its hinges as the creature crashed through. Matt fired, the flash illuminating his foe’s face for an instant, revealing the sickly yellow eyes, bared teeth and dripping saliva. Even hunched down, it was big, maybe seven feet at full height.

  It skidded past him, overturning a table.

  He pumped the shotgun and readied to fire, but it was on him too quickly, batting the gun away. The shotgun flew from his hands and landed at the monser’s feet.

  Sensing it had him, the thing backed up, picked up the shotgun, and flung it across the floor. There was no reaching it now.

  He reached for the sidearm in the gun belt, but the thing got a grip on his shirt and flung him toppling over a metal chair.

  If anything else were in the building, they were sure to hear the clatter in the cafeteria and send reinforcements.

  Scrambling to his feet, he had just enough time to dive out of the way as it leapt at him, claws outstretched. Again it tried for him and he somersaulted out of the way, and it flew over top of him.

  Matt bolted for the other end of the cafeteria, the beast in pursuit, wet breaths coming from its nostrils, anticipating a kill. He spotted the flagpole with its spearlike tip. It was maybe five feet behind him, and there would be no time to draw the gun from the holster, turn and fire.

  He would have to improvise.

  He slowed as he reached the wall.

  When he was almost to the wall, he reached out for the flag stand, pulled it horizontal and braced the base of it against the wall. It tried to stop, but couldn’t. The tip of the flagpole caught it in the throat and ripped out the back of its neck.

  Thick dark blood splashed onto Matt’s arm as the creature flailed at its throat, the flag stand sticking out from it at an angle. It fell to the ground, limbs twitching.

  Matt took out the pistol and stepped around the body, giving it six feet of clearance, expecting it to spring back to life. When he was satisfied it was really dead, he took one last look at the creature and left the cafeteria.

  CHAPTER 34

  People had begun to file into the gym about half an hour ago, and the room buzzed with the murmur of conversation.

  Jill and Harry crouched behind the file cabinets on the balcony, crammed into a corner, both of them kneeling. Jill’s kneecaps started singing after about ten minutes and she hoped they wouldn’t have to stay in this position much longer. Harry looked equally uncomfortable, like a salmon packed into a sardine can.

  “What do you think’s happening?” Jill said.

  “Waiting for Rafferty, maybe.”

  Just then the volume rose, the crowd whooping and hollering as something riled them up.

  Jill couldn’t resist any longer, and she slid out from behind the cabinet. Crawling to the balcony wall, she peered over.

  She wondered if Rafferty had found the creature that she and Harry killed. They hadn’t heard anyone rummaging around the school, but that didn’t mean anything; it was a large building and someone could have been walking around the wings without them hearing.

  Harry joined her at the edge of the balcony after squeezing out of their hiding spot, huffing and puffing from the exertion.

  The gym was cloaked in shadows, the only illumination coming from the emergency lights mounted on the walls. Jill estimated the crowd at about two hundred, less than what they anticipated, but still a formidable number. The crowd faced the stage, some of them craning their necks or standing on tiptoe in order to get a better look.

  She looked toward the stage to see what the fuss was about, and her stomach knotted instantly. Now she knew why they had been hollering before.

  “Oh God,” she whispered.

  “Sweet Lord,” Harry said.

  Ed Rafferty stood on the stage, and next to him was Liza. She had been fastened to an X-shaped cross, her ankles and wrists secured to the cross with rope. Her head hung down, and Jill wondered if she wasn’t already dead.

  Rafferty surveyed the crowd, hands tucked into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels like a man who is truly satisfied with himself.

  There were two other empty crosses on the stage, no doubt reserved for her and Harry.

  “I’ll kill him.” Harry tried to stand, but Jill clamped onto his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “I’m gonna take this rifle and put a new hole in his head.”

  “You can’t do that,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do.”

  “Slow down, Harry. Take a few deep breaths.”

  He looked at her like a man who’s been cut off in traffic and is ready to run the other driver off the road.

  “I know you’re angry, but stop and think.”

  He exhaled a few quick breaths and then his face relaxed, the tension lines and wrinkles smoothing. “You’re right. We have to stick to the plan.”

  “We’ll get her out, okay?”

  “All right.”

  “Where do you think Matt is?” Jill said.

  “Maybe he got away,” Harry said, although Jill suspected Harry had the same thought she did: Rafferty had killed him.

  She had to reject that type of thinking if she wanted to keep going and survive this ordeal. If she had to, she would will him to be alive.

  “Are you ready?” Harry said.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  They had counted on Matt being able to use the revolver and free himself and Liza, leaving Harry and Jill to light the school ablaze and destroy Them. Now, they had to worry about Liza.

  “How will we get her out?” Jill said. “Do you think Matt’s still alive?”

  “I honestly don’t know, Jill. I’m sorry.” Harry reached down, picked up the transmitter, and handed it to her.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m gonna try for the stage. You light this place up. I’m hoping they’ll panic when they see the flames.”

  “They’ll rip you to pieces.”

  “I can’t leave her down there. Better that I go trying to save her than leave here a coward.”

  “Harry—”

  “No arguments. I’m doing this.”

  Jill saw from the look in his eyes that she wouldn’t be able to change his mind. She sighed and nodded; that was all she could do, short of shooting him in the leg.

  “Light up the door to the gym after I go through. Bring a few of those cocktails down to toss into the gym. Then get your ass up to the balcony and start lobbing firebombs. If it gets really bad, get out of here and set off the explosives.”

  They dug two Molotov cocktails out of the box and Jill traded the M-16 for the shotgun. Harry would have better luck with an automatic weapon, as he would need to fire quickly and often.

  They crept low to the ground, keeping below the balcony wall, and sneaked down the stairs to the gymnasium door. It was closed, to her relief, which would provide them some cover.

  Harry opened the janitor’s closet and slid the gas cans out. Then he took out his Zippo and flipped it open, the flame waving back and forth hypnotically.

&
nbsp; “I’ll open the door. Lob two of those high in the air and then shut the door. Light the gasoline and get upstairs.”

  “How will you get out?”

  “There’s that door behind the stage that leads to a service corridor near the cafeteria. I’m going to try for it. Ready?”

  She nodded her head and he lit the rags. Harry flipped the Zippo lighter closed and gave it to her.

  Harry opened the door and broke into a run, drawing confused looks from the crowd near the door. Many of them turned to watch, but were so stunned to see a fat guy with a rifle in their midst that nobody moved.

  Jill stepped into the doorway and pitched the first cocktail softball style into the air, then the second. They rose, hung in the air, then dropped and shattered.

  A high-pitched squeal arose from the crowd and someone yelled, “Fire! Fire!” as the crowd parted in the center, flames flickering in the dark gym. The crowd began to swirl and break, like a mosh pit, trying to escape the two areas of the floor that were now in flames.

  From the stage, she heard Ed Rafferty yell, “What the fuck! Now! Start it now!” Rafferty yelled.

  A change came over the crowd, twisting, spasming, gripping at their backs as if in horrible pain. Some fell to their knees and threw their heads back, howling. Others went straight to the floor, writhing like snakes. A middle-aged balding guy in a suit raised his hand in front of his face and watched it as the bones lengthened beneath the skin. All around Jill could hear popping and soft crunching and she realized with disgust that it was the sound of bones and joints rearranging themselves.

  Not wanting to see anymore, she slammed the door and dragged the cans to the foot of the stairs. After unscrewing the caps, she heaved one, then the other onto the bottom step and them kicked them over, spilling the gasoline. It lapped across the floor and spread under the gym door.

  She climbed to the landing and flipped the top of the Zippo. Then she tossed it into the puddle of gasoline and it lit with a whoosh, the wave of heat warming her face. Turning, she was ready to head to the balcony when she heard something coming down from upstairs.

  Something big.