The Harvesting

by Melanie Karsak

  I nodded.

  “Nice shooting,” Gary, a squeaky little man with thick glasses, added. I remembered Gary somewhat. He used to come to Grandma’s cabin to help her with her taxes. Gary shook my hand and then followed Jamie’s band of armed men outside.

  “Thank you, oh, thank you, Layla,” Ethel said, coming to kiss my cheeks. “Layla, where is Grandma Petrovich?”

  I looked down and fought back my tears. Unable to speak, I just shook my head.

  “Oh no,” Ethel cried out, and turned, putting her head on Summer’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, Layla,” Summer said and set her hand on my shoulder, “but thank you all the same. Good lord, Layla, where did you get those guns?” she asked absently as she guided her mother toward a seat.

  I looked back into the room. Ian was calling for water. Kristie’s cousin, April, was hovering over them. Kristie had gone into a seizure.

  I followed the armed group outside. A couple of gunshots rang out as they took down a few of the approaching undead.

  “Man, that’s Mr. Corson. Here you go, asshole. Thanks for failing me in Chemistry,” Jeff, Kristie’s cousin, said with a laugh as he fired at the approaching man.

  “Not cool, brother,” Will, a high school aged relative of Summer and Ethel, chided him.

  I leaned against the handicapped railing and looked at the bodies lying under the collapsed roof. Their arms and legs stuck out. To my horror, I thought I recognized some of them. I felt like I might be sick.

  Jamie came and stood beside me. He eyed me over. “What are you doing here, Layla?”

  I opened my mouth to explain when April came to the door. “Jamie, we can’t talk any sense into Ian. Kristie’s gone. We gotta put her down before she turns. He won’t listen. Please, come help.”

  Jamie turned. I half followed but then heard Jeff.

  “Someone ask Layla to do it. I’m sure she’d have no problem,” he said.

  Jamie stopped. “Can that shit right now, man. That’s your cousin dying in there,” he said, silencing Jeff. Then, casting an apologetic glance toward me, he went inside.

  I turned back. Overhead, a hawk shrilled and flew out toward the lake. It was almost like the creature had no idea anything was happening, like it had no idea the world was ending.

  Then I heard grunting behind me. I turned to find a young child, perhaps seven or so years old, running toward me. Her mouth was dripping with bloody saliva. My hands shook. I pulled out the Magnum. I raised the gun and aimed. I could not pull the trigger. The little girl kept getting closer.

  “Layla,” I heard Tom call in warning behind me.

  The girl got closer. I couldn’t do it.

  “Layla,” Tom called again, panic filling his voice. A second later, a shot rang out. The girl fell with a thud.

  I turned to look. Ian was standing on the collapsed roof, gun in his hand.

  His eyes met mine. He cast me a knowing glance and then went inside. Moments later, another shot—inside the building—was fired. I knew then that Kristie was dead.

  Chapter 7

  It took about two hours before the undead who had been drawn to the community center were dispatched. Inside, discussion and then argument began about what to do next.

  I stood by the door and listened. Tom, Mr. Jones who owned the local gas station, Jamie who had done two tours in Iraq as a medic, Pastor Frank from the Baptist Church, and Mrs. Finch seemed to be leading the discussion. Many of the others looked too scared or too shell shocked to think let alone talk. Ian, who was red-eyed, sat on the floor in the corner.

  “What the hell are we gonna do now?” Jeff asked as he removed his hat and rubbed his sweaty forehead with his forearm.

  “We need to gather all in one place,” Mrs. Finch said, her finger pointing.

  “No. We are safer in our own homes,” Mr. Jones said.

  “And what would I do in my house by myself? I don’t have any guns. I have no way to protect myself. And lights are going to go off soon,” Mrs. Finch shouted, her hands waving.

  The more they talked, the more scared the rest of the group looked. Frenchie Davis’ two children, apparently the only two kids yet to survive, clung to their mother.

  “We should get out of town. We need to head toward a military base. We need to get somewhere safe, get help,” Tom suggested looking at each of us in turn.

  “The nearest base is more than 300 miles. We’ll never make it,” Jamie replied calmly.

  “We don’t even know what caused it,” Mr. Jones said. “It could be anything. The food we eat. The water we drink. Something else in the environment. We don’t even know if we can eat the supplies we have. All of us could still get sick. With the T.V. out, we’ve no idea what’s happening.”

  “911 went down yesterday, and now the phones are totally dead,” Mrs. Finch added.

  “Could be a bio-weapon, a terrorist attack,” Tom suggested.

  Jamie shook his head. “Whatever it is, I heard it hit Canada too. It’s spreading.”

  “It could simply be the wrath of God,” Pastor Frank said solemnly.

  “We need help. We need to all get together then head to a shelter, a base, something,” Mrs. Finch said, her fist pounding her hand to emphasize her words, her voice rising as she spoke.

  And on they went. Some voices started to rise. The children started to cry. Finally, at some point, no one could hear anyone over the shouting.

  I noticed then there was an air-horn canister on the shelf beside me. Frustrated, I picked it up and blew the horn. The wooong silenced the room.

  “Right now we have no idea how many people are still alive in this town. We need to secure this place and get an accounting. First, we need to clear the dead bodies—we can bury them in the baseball field. Then we need to go around and see how many people are hiding in their houses. Once we have everyone accounted for, we can call a meeting and ensure people like Mrs. Finch are paired with others and can be kept safe—maybe we could use the elementary school as a base. This town is easy to defend. The lake has us protected on one side. The forest is on the other. There are only two roads and one bridge leading into this place. We need to get the town cleaned up then barricade the roads and put guards there.”

  “Well, Ms. Ancient-Warfare-Know-it-All,” April began, “what about the bridge?”

  Knowing how much she loved Kristie, I let it go. “We blow it up.”

  The room went silent.

  “And how do we do that? I guess I could Google it, but the world just came to a fucking end,” Jeff said.

  “Larry’s Tree and Stump Removal—he has dynamite.”

  Silence.

  “She’s right. We hunker down. We keep each other safe. Most of us here can hunt and fish. We can secure this place,” Jamie said.

  I smiled at Jamie.

  With a half-smile, he tipped the brim of his hat toward me.

  “Until help comes, right?” Ethel asked hopefully. Her obliviousness to the situation saddened me.

  Jamie smiled softly at her. “Ethel . . . everyone . . . the reality is that help is not on the way. No reserves have been dispatched to Hamletville. I mean, they could barely evac New Orleans after Katrina. We’re not exactly high up on a government list of priorities.”

  “We can be safe here, if we stick together,” I offered.

  Not everyone looked sure, but after some consideration, the survivors agreed to be divided into teams. Some were sent to patrol the streets. Some were sent to gather supplies and convene at the elementary school. Fred Johnson went to the town garage to get a backhoe to bury the dead. Jeff and a handful of others headed off to Larry’s Tree and Stump Removal. After his comment outside, I secretly wished Jeff would blow himself up. We’d decided that two rings on the fire alarm meant assemble at the elementary school gymnasium, four rings if help had arrived, and six rings meant danger. Everyone was given medical gloves and strict advice to avoid touching dead bodies.

  Ian and April moved Kristie’s body from the com
munity center to the baseball field. I watched Ian go. He did not look back. I went back to my dirt-bike and got on. The body of the little girl still lay in the parking lot. I couldn’t look at it.

  I was about to kick start the engine when Jamie came up to me. “Where are you headed?”

  “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.