Red Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  “Well. Don’t worry,” she consoled. “You’ll need all your strength anyway.”

  “Oh?” Hudson’s eyebrow rose now. “Why’s that?”

  “Because I can’t have my big man all worn out when I try on my new holiday-themed unmentionables for him tonight.”

  She teasingly dangled a bag logoed amore intl from her perfectly manicured thumb and forefinger. She drove away, leaving Hudson with lifted spirits. Aware of activity at his crotch, he realized it was probably best to give the rigid stance a rest and keep his hands in his pockets for a minute or two.

  Then came a murmuring from a pair of elderly power walkers in pastel sweats, stopping to gawk at something a block over, coming around the corner of Turner’s Wedding Rentals.

  It was a girl in her twenties, her reddened eyes as wide as fifty-cent coins, clothes torn, knees scraped. Stumbling toward him, she looked like an extra from a Romero film.

  Peripherally, Hudson saw a car turn the corner of Turner’s and accelerate toward the girl. He blasted into his whistle.

  As the car screeched to a halt, Hudson watched the girl pitch forward. He ran toward her, keying the radio mic on his shoulder. “Dispatch! Need an ambulance at Second Street!”

  A small mob of early shoppers and storekeepers poured out and gathered at safe distances. The driver stood halfway out of his car. “I didn’t hit her, officer! Least, I’m pretty sure.”

  Hudson knelt to find the girl shivering, her eyes twitching madly. He recognized her—Belinda Pascal, track-and-field standout from the university. “Belinda? Are you injured?”

  Dazed, Belinda did not seem to know. Hudson assessed the scene, remembering faces, conditions, searching for anything unusual. “Doesn’t look like you did,” he said, firmly addressing the driver. “But I need you to pull over. Gonna need a statement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lanky Belinda exploded from her fetal position to become a feral human animal, shrieking, biting, and clawing at Hudson.

  “Belinda! Calm down!” Her teeth clamped shut an inch from his restraining hand.

  “You can’t have my aortic valve!” Belinda shouted, her eyes rolling back in her head, lids blinking at machine gun speed.

  Hudson turned her face away and bear-hugged her, pinning her arms to her side. Despite her small stature and his strength, her spasmodic movement made him feel she might break his grip at any second. She was far stronger than Naples had been.

  She went still. “Is it really daytime?” she asked with a soft, ragged voice.

  “It’s daytime, baby girl,” he reassured. “Just stay still. Got help coming.”

  In his arms, she trembled as her eyes darted all around.

  The ambulance siren rose in the near distance.

  “Things,” Belinda muttered. “Things…”

  “What?”

  “There were…things, everywhere. All around. They… they were killing me.” She nestled herself against his thick chest.

  “What things, Belinda?”

  “They were killing me.” She didn’t seem to have heard him. “A little piece at a time.”

  * * * *

  Stella was too aware of her breathing, sure that it echoed throughout the sanctuary as she strode to the panel behind the pulpit platform and switched on the sanctuary lights. All of them.

  She had asked, practically begged Ruth to leave them on after morning cleanings, but the young zealot, citing a sinful waste of church resources, always refused, sometimes adding a snippy remark about Stella’s irrational fear of the dark reflecting a flawed walk with the Lord.

  Approaching forty, Stella had a wholesome beauty that caught the eye subtly and grew more appealing with time, unlike the immediate “wow factor” of the younger Ruth. Their dispute over the lights might have seemed a quibble, but it amounted to much more for Stella. She was intrigued by spooky things. She loved this time of year when the prep for the Pumpkin Parade was at its peak, with the fun of festive frights in the atmosphere. It was the opposite pole of a long childhood period when she had been besieged by night terrors, a time that was easy to recall in pitch darkness.

  But since becoming the church’s pianist last February when Mrs. Mirschaw moved to some desert town for her rheumatism, Stella had experienced reminders of those youthful night terrors. She didn’t remember when they started. Perhaps in her toddling years, when she had seen two large dogs fighting at the park.

  Practicing walking with her parents and holding their hands, Stella was probably smiling all the while, until the man and dog—a very large mix of shepherd and chow—approached a little girl and boy with a juvenile Samoyed.

  The fluffy pup lunged away from his young keepers and dashed to the hybrid playfully. But the older dog, perhaps poorly trained or going blind or simply in a bad mood, met the newcomer with snarling and gnashing, tearing at the Samoyed’s neck and ears, ripping chunks of flesh away. The pup yelped, unseasoned in protecting itself or fighting that wasn’t play.

  Stella was abruptly hoisted by her father and turned away from the melee—but not in time to keep her from seeing fur and flesh torn, an eruption of blood, and terror on the faces of the little boy and girl.

  After her father covered her eyes, she still heard the sounds of trauma, of rage and pain and terror both human and canine, sounds and sensations new to a baby girl.

  news flash, little girl! cute puppies will hurt each other!

  An existential revelation for little Stella.

  The night after the incident, Stella had her first nerve-jolting episode.

  She recalled her parents running into her room and comforting her, not only on that night but countless following, their patience and sympathy decreasing with each episode.

  Well into her preteen years, she had already survived an eternity of nights shivering under a heavy comforter as a cavalcade of imagined sick things dashed past her door, or peeked their pointy-eared, glow-eyed faces just around the door frame, surely to see if she was asleep—and vulnerable.

  This became something even worse: a fear of abandonment. Nights spent rocking Stella had tested her parents to the breaking point it. They pored over parenting and home remedy books, desperation building as the terrors became an entity that leeched sleep from the household and drove a widening wedge between her parents.

  Stella was given little placebos, trinkets to keep the monsters away. Her father, patiently at first, then tersely and tensely, toured the corners of her room with her, armed with a flashlight, uncovering nothing to fear each and every time.

  Still, she found herself lying there, alternately squeezing her eyes shut and glancing to see if the child-eating evils of pure dark were gathering at the door—or halfway to her bed, perhaps extending claws…

  A ten-year-old girl who still bore childish night terrors was just accustomed to the attention; the “overlove,” it was concluded. Thus, continuing to grant it would only ruin her. Whether that was advice from her mother’s growing stack of parenting books or an agreement between mother and father to leave her to the nightly ordeal was a question that Stella didn’t really want answered.

  By then, her parents didn’t often argue—but they also didn’t hug anymore, or smile. Or sometimes even talk. When they did, they used code words for separation, divorce, the end of her universe.

  Then came a family meeting. Her father announced to Stella in a somber tone that she would be staying with her aunt Miriam for the first few weeks of summer, possibly longer.

  * * * *

  Stuart barely chewed, trying to finish his lunch in the face of DeShaun’s assault. But DeShaun drew closer, determined. “Damn cockroaches, man. Like, a whole trash bag, just full, man, up to the top, and all shiny and glistening, as the funnel gets shoved into the guy’s mouth, down his throat…”

  Stuart did a good job of acting bored, just staring at the
lunchroom walls. It helped that they were almost completely covered with posters and cutouts of cats, witches, floor-to-ceiling poster board trees with neon orange and yellow leaves.

  “Then, on top of that, we add pig guts, all gooey and rotten…”

  In an instant, Stuart no longer needed Zen concentration to no-sell DeShaun’s nauseating litany. For a certain class arrived and separated into cliques, scattering about the lunchroom. All but Candace Geelens.

  Carrying a cooler bag that she had decorated with sparkly flower stickers, she drifted off alone.

  With her googly-eyed alien hood pulled back, her honey-chestnut locks flowed and bobbed like a mare’s tail as she walked to a chair near the wall, several seats from a familiar gaggle of students, the big brains who dangled and displayed their grade point averages over the student body like slumlords.

  Noisily shoving his chair back, Stuart popped up, startling DeShaun.

  “Where are you going, dude?” asked DeShaun. “You wanted me to do this.”

  As Stuart put on his best cool, he detected via their furtive glances toward Candace a sense of nefarious scheming among the brain bullies.

  The leader of these well-read rowdies, a gangly chap with a bowl cut named Albert Betzler, nudged his bespectacled neighbor Del, as he scooped a huge helping of mashed potatoes into his spoon, which he then aimed at Candace like a catapult, his finger hooked at the tip, and fired.

  Stuart whipped his notebook into the line of fire, intercepting the missile. The mess spread over his crookedly applied Chalk Outlines sticker, and he glared a warning at the rowdies, who glared back with dorky defiance magnified by thick glasses.

  Stuart wiped the mess from his notebook on the table’s edge and took a seat beside Candace. “Hey.”

  She gave him a surprised look, unaware she had been the target of a spud bombing. “Um… hi there, Stuart.”

  Stuart said, “Hey,” then repeated it a third time, with a smile. So much for cool.

  But she smiled. And he melted.

  “Can I do something for you?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Stuart glanced toward the wall and spotted a sign from god. “Well…there’s the uh…”

  He motioned toward the poster. “Pumpkin Parade coming up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So…” Stuart began as rehearsed, “my brother sings and plays guitar for The Chalk Outlines.”

  Candace brightened. “Oh, I know! Kenny Killmore! He’s so darky-dreamy!” She realized her gaffe. “Sorry. That was annoying I bet.”

  “His real name’s Dennis, ya know.”

  “They’re really good!”

  “Yeah, well… I’ll probably join the band after school. Like, literally this summer.”

  Candace had taken a bite of her rectangular lunchroom pizza, but now froze midchew. “Sherioushly?” She swallowed. “No fooling?”

  Stuart acted casual.

  Candace swallowed and leaned toward Stuart. “So. Why are you talking to me?”

  “Huh? What do you mean by that?”

  Candace picked at her food with her fork. “I just…” She blinked. “Nobody talks to me. So why would the brother of a rock star?”

  Stuart thought of the aggro nerds, Albert and company, probably staring tombstones at his back and plotting some Rube Goldbergesque revenge even now.

  “That’s crazy! You’re…” Stuart felt a small terror warn him not to come off too stalky. “What I was saying is, there’s a record company exec coming to check out the band and my brother kinda needs me there, on stage keeping the gear tuned.” This he had rehearsed. The next he hadn’t. “And, well, he says I should bring a chick.”

  Excitement lit up her brown eyes. “Are you… asking me?”

  Stuart shifted, glanced away. “Well, yeah.”

  Candace’s smile bloomed as though she couldn’t restrain it. Then, just as quickly, she grew gloomy.

  “Jeez,” Stuart scratched his head. “Didn’t mean to ruin your day.”

  “No, it’s… I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my dad, but…”

  “But what?”

  “We might have plans.” It sounded false, but like she wanted Stuart to know it was false.

  “The only plans anybody makes around here are for the parade.”

  Candace pushed away from the table, leaving her tray.

  “Hey, wait, I didn’t mean…” Stuart began.

  “I’ll let you know. Thank you for asking though. I mean it.” She breezed away, leaving Stuart perplexed. He turned, meeting the virulent, far-sighted glower of Albert Betzler.

  Chapter 3

  On Gwendon Street, at the end of a stone walkway splitting the leaf-covered yard of a once-beautiful Victorian house, sat Dennis’s hearse. With its spacious rear storage section, the customized funeral car doubled as The Chalk Outlines’ official band vehicle.

  A battered hatchback belonging to one Pedro “F.U.” Fuentes, bassist and bona fide badass, was parked in front, a primered Indian motorcycle piloted by Outlines drummer “Thrill Kill” Jill Hawkins, in the back. Behind that was a BMW with a flamboyant sparkle-blue paint job, belonging to band manager Kerwin Stuyvesant, of giant teeth and tiny glasses fame.

  Stuyvesant had recently inherited the house. Rather than have it brought up to code for sale, he volunteered it as rehearsal space.

  Farm trucks and teen partiers traversing Gwendon en route to US 70 could often catch snippets of spirited spookabilly music coming from the drafty edifice. Some folks honked either friendly approval or vehement distaste. And some, regardless of their musical tastes, slowed to get an earful of the Outlines rehearsing, just so they might have a “brush with greatness” story, in case the band ever hit it big, as a growing number of Ember Hollow residents thought they might.

  The high-ceilinged living room also served as storage space for instruments, equipment, and deliriously campy Halloween/horror stage décor.

  Stuyvesant watched approvingly while the Outlines pounded out their club hit “Rumble in Frankenstein’s Castle,” in full performance mode.

  “A man with eyes just like mine

  Nephew of ol’ Doc Frankenstein

  Needs a lab rat, that’ll be me

  Bring back the ol’ doc’s legacy

  When he does, gonna be a fight

  Side by side, slabs and straps,

  GO!”

  Pedro, classic horror punker with devilock haircut, spiked sleeveless leather jacket, and naked devil chicks tattooed on his massive arms, strangled and banged his bass like it was one of the countless bullies he had humbled during his travels through the juvenile justice system.

  Jill battered her drums with equal aplomb. With shocking white hair sporting black electric bolts on either side, skintight leopard-print pants hugging hips that had turned many a driver’s head during her travels on the Indian, and a crimson baby-doll shirt with two pentacles that hugged her like a dying lover, Jill was no wallflower-background drummer.

  Dennis, his shave-sided pompadour holding steady, issued his growly, wailing vocals and lead notes with absolute sincerity.

  “Give my curse the hearse, Doc Frank

  Or I swear to God you will die

  And your pet monster will fry

  It won’t be a swell sight.”

  Kerwin applauded as they finished. “Solid, solid shit, cat daddies. Aaand cat mama, of course.”

  His rhetoric and attire, red-orange suit and gleaming black-and-white patent leather shoes, screamed fifties-era band manager, as seen on television. “Pedro, I’d love to see some more scowl. Maybe stick your tongue out now and then, like, you know, like you’re showing the ladies your technique, if you catch my drift.”

  Pedro flipped him off with a black-nailed finger, as he pulled the pyramid-studded guitar strap over his head.

  “Nice,
that’s real nice,” Kerwin said. “What if your sweet Catholic grandmother saw that?”

  “Good question! What if she saw me wiggling my tongue around like some square-ass Gene Simmons geezer?” he countered.

  Kerwin turned to Dennis for support as the band leader toweled his sweaty hair. “Back me up here, Den Den. We need some more showmanship, am I right?”

  As Jill came to Dennis’s side for a black-lipped kiss, Kerwin addressed her as well. “No offense there, Jill, but some booty shorts and a spiked bra would do wonders. Don’t be shy about”—he leaned in to almost whisper—“stuffing the puppies, you dig?”

  She blew a huge bubble that concealed her face, and then sucked it in to reveal a bored expression.

  “Or do that,” Kerwin said.

  “Trust me, Ker,” Dennis said. “We bring the sting when it comes to showmanship.” He turned to Pedro and Jill. “You ask me, we could be a knife edge tighter late in the set. We need to finish strong.”

  Kerwin snapped his fingers and pointed at Dennis. “Exactly my next point, baby. Leave ’em exhausted. Empty. Drainsville. Tomorrow, we’ll do it ag—”

  “Take ten, guys,” Dennis interrupted. “Then let’s hit it.”

  Jill sighed. “Denny. Give yourself a break, babe.”

  “Yeah, maybe she’s right, Denny-o.” Kerwin said. “I need you guys fresh on the day. Besides”—Kerwin pointed at his watch—“I got a thing.”

  “We’ll be all right without you for a coupla tracks.” Dennis plucked at his D string.

  “Yeah, man. Go get your shoes polished,” suggested Pedro.

  Jill and Dennis chuckled when Kerwin took on a terrified expression, shooting a look down at his shoes.

  “Wouldn’t hurt you to show a little gratitude, Petey,” Kerwin said.

  Pedro got very close to Kerwin, a half-sneer forming on his face. “Tell you what. We get signed, I’ll give you a great big soul kiss. Tongue and everything.” He clapped Kerwin’s shoulder, nearly knocking him down. “How’s that?”

  “How ’bout just a fruit basket and a God damned thank-you note?”

  “All right, all right,” Dennis refereed. “Comedy hour’s over. Water up and let’s go again.”