The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh.

by Glen Johnson

  “The word Asherah was used to depict a branch, a tree or simply a rod, but I changed it, twisted it, making it into goddess – a fertility goddess. His wife! For hundreds of years they drew images of Him with a wife at His right hand. The ancient city of Ugarit was covered in images of her with her triangular pubic hair and massive breasts.

  “Never shaved down there back then. Not much oral going on. No one likes to go down on a tumbleweed.” She laughed at the joke. Blood bubbled out her left nostril.

  “A shard of pottery was uncovered during an archaeological dig at Kuntillet Ajrud, and graffiti on a wall at Khirbet el-Kom stating, I bless you by Yahweh of Samaria and by his Asherah.

  “Of course Yahweh was the names the Israelites gave to their god. His name is unpronounceable by mere humans.

  “In Psalms eight-two verse one it reads: God presides in the great assembly he renders judgment among the ‘gods’. Us, his angelic children it’s referring too. We are like gods compared to men. But with a slight twist you can see how it sounds like Asaph – the author of psalms eighty-two – is suggesting He has an equal: Asherah.

  “I know what you’re thinking; the book of Psalms is attributed to King David. But truth be told, over ten different people contributed to it. From Mosses, the Sons of Korah, Haggai, Zechariah, Ethan the Ezrahite and Heman the Ezrahite, to name a few.

  “Ah, false religion was my greatest accomplishment.

  “In fact all false religion upon the earth – that I have created – is referred to as Babylon the Great. Simply because that’s where it all started. Why, instead of convincing them God doesn’t exist, I simply buried Him under millions of other false ones.” That twisted smile.

  “And it worked. Turning one religion – which I created – against another. Almost every war ever fought has been over religion. There has been only four days, since 1914, at the start of World War I, where there hasn’t been a war going on somewhere on your planet. Four fucking days, that’s how good I am at fermenting chaos. Even as we speak, this very day there are seventeen wars going on. Most are in Africa.” She took a long drag and held it a touch longer and normal, before blowing a large noxious cloud.

  “Of course,” she said offhandedly, “my favourite three gods will always be Money, Sex and Power.” Her face cracked into that horrific Cheshire cat grin.

  “Time’s up,” she said, changing the subject suddenly while climbing unsteadily to her bare, dirty feet.

  “Already?” I asked. Looking at the clock hanging over the huge mantelpiece I saw that it was almost midnight. Time seemed to have a way of losing itself when he was around.

  She sucked hard on the cigarette, pulling in her last breath.

  “Tomorrow try and be here earlier, if you have to go out. I am a very busy entity.” She stared at me hard, her eyes boring into the top of my lowered head.

  “Tomorrow is all about the gathering of the nations. Israel was born.” She spat the name out, as if it tasted rotten.

  Then without fanfare or another word, she fell back into the chair. As dead as those buried beneath my garden.

  Whether it was his intention or not, but when the body fell back the knot in the robes come undone. She lay back in the chair, legs wide apart, head slumped sideways, arms hanging limply on either side. The most disturbing thing though was what the fallen robe had revealed. Her stomach was ripped open from her vagina right up past her belly button. Her large and small greyish-purple intestines had sagged out her stomach, now the robe wasn’t holding them in place. Big purple and grey clots, red veins and twisting innards had spilled out onto the carpet. A few drips still splattered down into the now large gathered sticky pool.

  What had caused the horrific injuries? I had no idea. Would someone purposefully do that to themselves? I couldn’t even being to comprehend why. Maybe she had found out she was pregnant. I had heard stories about women who tried to do home abortions on themselves. Had she slipped while trying to do it herself with a knitting needle or a pair of scissors, or possibly a twisted metal coat hanger? Or had someone else done it to her? Possibly a husband or boyfriend having found out she was pregnant by another man. Another casualty of pointless rage.

  I was pondering these mysteries and thinking of how I was going to clean the mess up, when the front door started banging.

  He’s forgotten to tell me something. Why had he come back with someone else? Why not just reanimate the body slumped in the chair?

  “Coming. Hold your horses,” I shouted.

  “Sorry to disturb you so late, Mr. Cain. I just need to take a statement from you, while the incident is still fresh in your mind, being that you were one of the first on the scene along with, Ms. Cuddy and me.”

  Fuck! What was Kemp doing here so late? It was now past midnight.

  I could still hear him talking through the door.

  “Sorry it’s so late. But it was difficult to get away from, Ms. Cuddy.” He had obviously been to her house first. It sounded like he was now facing away from the door, looking around.

  Nosy bastard.

  “One moment. It’s very late,” I shouted trying to stall for time.

  “It will only take a few minutes, Mr. Cain,” came his relaxed voice.

  I stood stock still, like a rabbit trapped in the lights of an oncoming speeding car. There was a dead body slumped in my chair, her guts all over my front room floor. Shit and piss as well now that her body had relaxed.

  I ran to the kitchen grabbing the empty trashcan and a plate from off the draining board. I now found myself knelt down on my carpet, shovelling slippery innards into my kitchen bin, using my hands to push the wet sticky bruise coloured intestines, and thick blood clots, onto the plate. It felt like cold rubbery uncooked sausages.

  In any other circumstance if I had seen a persons intestines spread out like a tacky Halloween display, I would’ve probably vomited everywhere. But at that precise moment I was shit scared. A hundred and one things rushing through my mind. Kemp knew I was in, because my car was there and I had already shouted through the door.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  The voice continued on the other side of the door. “I won’t take up too much of your time,” he called, sounding like he was now moving around outside.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t roam all the way around, discovering the mounds in the back garden. Luckily it was pitch black around there. He couldn’t possibly see a thing. If he did see them I would say it was just rubbish I had buried. Many people with large gardens, who grow vegetables, dig long trenches and fill them with rotting vegetable matter, and other degradable household waste. Making a cheep, recyclable natural fertilizer. I use too, when I first moved in, but soon gave up because it was too much hard work.

  I tried to ignore him, hopefully he thinks I’ve returned upstairs to put on some respectable clothes.

  “Mr. Cain?”

  I could see a powerful flashlight against my small side window. Luckily it was shut and the curtains pulled tightly across. Trust him to carry a torch. 00-fucking-7.

  “One moment,” I said, trying to make my voice sound like it had come from somewhere else apart from the front room.

  I rested the bin on her lap, grabbing the corners of the high back chair; I tipped it backwards and dragged it along on its two back legs, heading past the hallway and stairs and into the kitchen, leaving a long trail of clotting blood behind, and a long snaking line of looped intestines that had dropped from her open abdomen, it looked like a long wet sausage skin that had been filled with greyish purple golf balls. The average human body holds about seven meters of intestines – about two meters were trailing along the floor.

  “Mr. Cain, please can you open this door?” The muffled voice was heading around the back now.

  I felt like shouting for him to piss-off. Or say it’s too late come back tomorrow. But Kemp was like dog with a bone; once he was up to something he wouldn’t quit until he had achieved it.

  I left the chair and the body in the kitc
hen. Then I proceeded to roll up the carpet from in front of the fire and take it into the kitchen, throwing it down beside the dead woman. One last thing, with a couple of dishcloths I shuffled a long on my hands and knees cleaning up the blood trail. I then dropped the cloth into the coal bucket and shut the lid.

  Then I noticed my shirt was saturated with blood too. Shit! I took it off and threw it next to the carpet, and took off my socks too. I composed myself while washing my hands in the kitchen sink. Then I got a handful of water and soaked my hair and sprinkled some over my shoulders and down my back.

  Ready. Well, ready as I would ever be.

  A thousand things ran through my mind. I pictured myself being led away handcuffed. People pointing, whispering, saying, “For him to be able to write books that twisted there had to be something wrong with him.”

  “Coming,” I hollered loudly.

  I opened the front door and started looking around trying to find him. The cold air hit my bare torso like a kick in the chest. Kemp appeared from around the corner. Just in time, he would have been standing around the back if I hadn’t called him.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Cain.”

  No he wasn’t.

  “That’s perfectly ok, Mr. Kemp.” He hated being called Mr. and not stating his rank. “I was having a bath,” I said lamely. He could obviously see I was stood in just my jeans, no socks or top, and my hair was dishevelled and wet. Whether it looked convincing or not was another matter.

  “I was just checking everything was alright?” He peered over my shoulder. I moved slightly to block his view.

  “You must have heard by now about what had happened?”

  “Yes. Tragic and very upsetting.” I lied. I had seen my fair share of dead bodies. Had only moments before been scooping up slippery intestines with my bare hands.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  Yes, I do.

  “Please,” I said stepping aside slowly. My eyes scanning the room to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Also eyeing all the heavy objects I had littered around, just in case I had to smack him across the head. At least in England the worst a policeman carried was a truncheon and pepper-spray. I wouldn’t be dealing with a cop with a gun.

  He walked past me, eyeing the whole room. I could tell he was itching to ask where some of the items had come from, or even to see the rest of my house. But he was too proud to say so. His eyes rolled slowly over everything. Possible trying to remember everything so he could check them against lists of stolen antiques.

  “Is it possible we could do this tomorrow down at the station?”

  He pulled his eyes away from my furniture and gave me a cold stare.

  “Why not. It’s late. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Then why the fuck did you? I wanted to shout in his fat freckly face.

  I went to walk back to the front door, glad to be rid of him.

  “Mind if I get myself a glass of water to take one of my tables?” He asked calmly. He started to make his way to where he believed my kitchen was.

  “Please let me,” I said pushing past him. “Tap or bottled?”

  He gave me a long cold stare. “Tap will be fine,” he said. “I don’t want to rise above my station now do I?”

  Cheeky twat!

  I headed into the kitchen, pushing the door open only a fraction and squeezing through. The chair was directly behind the door, blocking it slightly.

  I could hear him wandering around the front room. Poking here and there no doubt. I could hear tinkering as if he was lifting a lid off a pot. I could just imagine his eyes wide, hoping to find some kind of drugs or anything illegal hidden away.

  “Interesting trinkets and stuff you have,” he finally called.

  I could hear he was stood over to the left of the room, besides my Chinese collection of artefacts. One small section of wall, with a traditional, raised ends Qiaotou’an alter table perched up against it. A large wooden carved picture with the six Chinese main medical areas carved into it, hung above the table. The six influencing effects that affect the organs of the body and the bodies Qi – spirit, as well as effecting the person’s blood and essence. I could just hear Kemp whispering the six areas: Dampness, wind, fire, cold, dryness, and summer heat.

  Also a sign was hanging above the picture with the word Naixin wrote on it; meaning, all in good time. And below that a small statue of a Chinese god Yi – the Divine Bowman. Who supposedly is the god of luck? It was bright red, or hongse, which is Chinese for red. Red being the Chinese colour for luck. But I simply had it because I liked the figure, which I had brought in Taipei, the capital of Taiwan. And next to Yi was my favourite figure – Taishan, who was one of the Ten Judges of the Chinese ten hells, who writes in the Register of the Living and the Dead. He was painted white, because that is the Chinese colour for death and funerals.

  And below that, carved in Soapstone from Qingtian, which was south of Fuzhou, was the word Loaban, meaning boss, which my first wife had brought me when we spend two days there.

  Yes and collectively more than you earn in a year, I felt like shouting at him.

  “Thank you,” I called back.

  As I was about to head back out, the kitchen door started to open slowly. His ginger head popped through.

  “Sorry did you say something?” His eyes drinking in the kitchen. Luckily he was not in far enough to see behind the door he was leaning on. The partially naked woman sat staring blankly up at the raftered ceiling. Bucket full of her own intestines resting on her lap. Blood pooling around her dirty cut feet.

  I walked towards him, holding out his drink, my hand shaking slightly. He backed up to let me into the hallway.

  That was way too close for comfort, I thought.

  “What happened over there? He asked while he sniffed the water to check I hadn’t put a Rohypnol in it. None of his supposed tablets were produced. His eyes were fixed on where my carpet was only moments before. I noticed how empty the space looked, a single chair facing a fire with no rug, with a dusty outline of where the rug sat.

  “Nothing much.” I tried to keep my voice flat and not raise it while trying to speak too fast. “I fell asleep yesterday and spilt red wine all over the side of the chair and the Turkish rug.” I suddenly remember the red shoes that beyond all explanation still sat untouched in the burning fire.

  He’s eyes were fixed on me and luckily not on the fire. Also the remaining chair was blocking most of the fire from view.

  “Red wine can be a devil,” he said.

  “The devil?” I uttered.

  “No, a devil, not the devil,” he corrected.

  “Sorry, just a little tired that’s all.”

  “Hmm,” he muttered. “What time will I expect you at the station tomorrow?”

  “Um, between twelve and three?”

  “Fine.” He turned and headed for the door. I noticed he was leaving red footprints. Shit, he must have stood in the sticky pool that was gathered on the kitchen floor. Luckily he didn’t look down, but walk purposefully through the front door towards his patrol car. My overgrown path soaked up what was left on the soles of his shoes.

  I stood at the doorway, door held, blocking the red prints, waiting for him to climb into his vehicle. Not wanting to close the door until he was finally gone. Not trusting that he wouldn’t find another reason to disturb me. Finally his car disappeared down the long drive, his red taillights looking like demonic eyes in the night.

  I slammed the door shut and leant against the cold wood. Shit! I had just had a policeman in my house, standing inches away from a dead body. I was now trembling all over, while I slid down the door, to come to rest leaning on the cold wooden surface.

  15

  Playing With Your Food

  After Kemp had left I had to dispose of the disemboweled woman’s body. Not wanting to drag her remains through the front room and then having to clean up the dripping blood, I forced the back door open with my shoulder – after putting more clothe
s on – buckling the frame in the process. The door would need some attention. I would sort it out in the morning, it just needing a hard whack with the hammer and a good plaining.

  In preparation of what was to come I had dug another three holes besides the others the day before. I now simply tipped the body into the shallow grave, rug, bin, plate, blood soaked dishcloth, intestines and all. It made a disgusting slopping sound when the bin upturned.

  After filling the grave in, I got a bucket of hot soapy water and washed the blood from the tall back leather chair. Luckily it was red leather; ox-blood colour they call it; I would hate to think of what sort of stains would have been ingrained into it by now. Once this was all over I would replace them both. I wouldn’t be able to sit in them again after everything I had witnessed.