Red Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  Stuart and DeShaun exchanged another perplexed look. “Sure. No sweat,” Stuart answered.

  “There’s ol’ Wilcott,” said DeShaun.

  They trekked to a towering obelisk with intricately carved angelic figures and unusual symbols around the base.

  But even odder than the big stone, something was stuck in the earth, dead center of the grave.

  “What the hell?” Stuart asked.

  It was a sturdy wooden cross about four feet tall, made from inch-and-a-half-thick hickory. The light coloring of its smooth-sanded skin indicated it had been recently placed.

  “Maybe somebody’s way of paying tribute to the ol’ fella,” DeShaun conjectured, tugging at it. “It’s in pretty good.” Stuart took a turn, with the same result.

  Candace gave it a wide berth as she went to examine the towering monument behind it.

  “Wilcott P. Bennington the third,” Stuart said. “Town Father.”

  “The house we’re going to after this”—DeShaun cocked his head toward the woods to his left—“built right on the site where he settled.”

  “Yep.” Stuart pointed beyond a field past the church. “Right over there.”

  “It’s awesome, too,” Deshaun said. “There’s lotsa weird rumors about Ol’ Wilcott.”

  “There’s a rumor he could raise spirits,” Stuart said.

  Candace looked over the marker, drawn to the majestic sickle-wielding being carved in various poses around the tall base of the obelisk. She began rubbing the inscriptions.

  “But my dad says that’s silly,” continued Stuart. “‘Said,’ I mean.”

  There was another unusual symbol: the cross combined with a lowercase letter h, set inside a triangle, as Mrs. Steinborn had drawn. Candace did a rubbing of this as well.

  “These angels, so strong and peaceful,” she said. “Reminds me of my mo—”

  Candace’s words became a frightened yelp, as a quick figure appeared from behind the monument, like Mama Bates descending upon Martin Balsam.

  The figure was Ruth, lunging to snatch Candace’s paper.

  Candace was startled backward. The boys instantly took protective positions in front of her.

  Ruth was furious. “What are you kids doing? Desecrating this holy place?”

  “N…No, ma’am,” answered DeShaun. “It’s a homework assignment.”

  He held up the homework sheet, and she snatched it too, glaring down at it. “It’s still disrespectful. This is what happens when prayer is taken out of school!”

  She handed the papers back and loomed over the shaken Candace. “Who are you, little girl?”

  “C-Can…”

  Stuart and DeShaun helped her stand. “Candace. She goes to our school,” Stuart said.

  “Candace. Why haven’t I seen you in church?”

  “Uh…” Stuart tried to answer for her, but was at a loss.

  “She’s…allergic,” DeShaun blurted.

  “To…pews!” Stuart elaborated.

  “Pews, pew polish,” DeShaun elaborated.

  “Makes her break out in splotches,” Stuart finished.

  “Oh, really?” Ruth scowled at the boys, then down at Candace. “Why can’t she tell me herself?”

  “She… her allergy… her throat,” Stuart improvised.

  Ruth took Candace’s hand and pulled her close, putting her arms around the girl. “Come here and let me pray over you, child.”

  “No!” Candace jerked loose and ran for the road, fast as her legs would pump.

  Stuart and DeShaun took off after her. “Candace! Stop!”

  Ruth watched them with more than suspicion. Perhaps it was hatred. And then she made damn sure the hickory cross was lodged deep and solid.

  * * * *

  Stuart and DeShaun caught up to Candace. Though breathless, she still stumbled forward as fast as her taxed lungs would allow.

  “Candace!” Stuart called. “Stop! Stop!”

  She broke into tears, her feet barely rising. Still she ran, driven by fear or fury. Her backpack fell off, but she ignored it.

  Stuart hopped off his bike and let it crash, jumping in front of her with hands and arms out like Superman bracing to halt a runaway bus. “Stop!”

  She slammed into him, knocking him on his back—but remained in his arms, sobbing into his chest.

  DeShaun retrieved her backpack and caught up, taking his time.

  Stuart let his arms wrap around her, comforting but not squeezing. “It’s okay, Candace. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

  DeShaun knelt and patted her back, and the boys somehow knew to just stay quiet and let her cry.

  After a few minutes, Candace stood to walk away. The boys exchanged their hundredth perplexed look.

  “Wait!” Stuart called.

  Candace stopped but didn’t turn.

  “Whatever you’re gonna do, sooner or later you’re gonna need to know how to ride a bike.”

  Candace turned to him, and there was almost, at least, relief on her face.

  Chapter 13

  DeShaun ran a few yards ahead and turned sideways as Stuart ran along the other side, pushing the handlebars. He got the bike going, waited for Candace to give the okay, and then released. Candace pedaled smoothly, keeping the handlebars straight and true.

  DeShaun held his hands up and let her pedal past him, giving Stuart a thumbs-up and then he ran after her. “Okay, brake!” Stuart called. “Easy this time.”

  She did, and with just a little shimmy of the handlebars, she eased her foot down to stop. She glanced back at the boys with a proud grin, her head sideways and her eyes just a little squinty in a way that Stuart had never seen before, a way that made him feel… squishy, and he started a song about her in his head.

  She stared up the road and when she turned back the smile was gone. “I really have to go, you guys. Wish I didn’t.”

  DeShaun went to get his bike, while Stuart held one handlebar of his for her to practice on the pedals while they talked.

  “I totally ruined Devil’s Night for you guys,” she lamented.

  “It’s okay,” Stuart said. “We’re getting too big for that stuff anyways.”

  Candace was incredulous. “Too big for Halloween?”

  DeShaun steered a lazy circle around them, shaking his head. “You ask my dad, kids are too big the day they’re old enough to toss a roll of toilet paper.”

  “Boy, I’d like to toss a few rolls across ol’ Albert Betzler’s lawn,” Stuart said with a grimace.

  “Yeah. If it weren’t for his giant clients,” added DeShaun.

  “Albert’s mean to you guys too?” asked Candace.

  DeShaun and Stuart shared a cynical glance. “Yeah, but in different ways,” said Stuart.

  “And for different reasons,” DeShaun enjoined.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Might as well tell ya, I guess.” Stuart scratched his head. “Albert…” He turned to DeShaun for help.

  “I don’t know…likes you, I guess?” DeShaun said.

  “Albert feels entitled to you,” Stuart said.

  Candace stopped. “Oh. Gross.”

  She pedaled faster, like she was distancing herself from the very thought.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” DeShaun said, before Stuart could clamp a hand over his mouth.

  Candace stopped like an old pro and turned to them, just as Stuart resumed a casual stride. “Why?”

  “Because…it’s good to know you have decent taste,” Stuart said. “Maybe.”

  “I like niceness in a boy. That’s number one. And Albert is not nice.”

  “What’s after that?” Stuart ventured.

  “Oh…a few things.” Candace said, perhaps recalling what she had considered many times. “Sensitivity. Loyalty. I guess
. Mostly…” She stood on the bike and rocked it back and forth. “Sanity.”

  “Sanity?” asked the boys in harmony.

  “That’s not so much, is it?” she asked.

  “No.”

  As she started pedaling again, Stuart looked at DeShaun and mouthed the question Am I sane? DeShaun shrugged.

  “My street is coming up,” she said.

  “It’s okay. We’ll take you all the way to your door,” Stuart offered.

  “I don’t think so, guys.”

  “How come? I mean, it’s getting dark…”

  “My family is kinda peculiar,” she explained. “I don’t think…I’m not ready for you to meet them.”

  “Okay.” Stuart waved. “No problem. Um…What about tomorrow night? The parade.”

  “I’m really gonna try, Stuart.”

  “Cool. Well…” Stuart backed up, waved again. “I guess, good night then.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, you guys.” Candace’s smile was more beguiling than ever, maybe because it seemed so sad, almost fatalistic.

  “For what?” Stuart asked.

  “A wonderful evening.”

  “You’re welcome.” Stuart thought of hugging her. He wanted to, just to be comforting, but he was afraid.

  She got off and handed the handlebars over to Stuart, then turned and walked onto Zebulon Street.

  Stuart stood holding his bike. It felt like the whole world had shifted on its axis, only no one but him could feel it.

  “What now?” asked DeShaun.

  Stuart looked over at his friend and saw the rock of stability he often took for granted, the anchor his brother could not be when their father died, the awkward kid who had sat down beside him in Mrs. Wong’s third-grade class and never left.

  Stuart knew DeShaun would die for him, and vice versa, and he almost—almost—wished for a chance to prove it.

  “We could still make the Screecher Feature, you know?”

  “No creepy old house?” asked DeShaun. “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I think so.” He stared off toward where Candace had run away. “One last Screecher Feature. Before we think it’s…cheesy or something like that.”

  “Screamer Femur it is, then!” DeShaun quipped. “My treat.” He turned to ride off, and Stuart was so proud to be his friend right then, he beamed. He was going to buy the crazy bastard all the popcorn he could eat.

  Candace saw the boys pedal out of sight and slowed her pace, in no hurry to get home. A strong wind blew leaves across her path, making her stuff her hands into her jacket pockets. She felt a little something and withdrew a piece of black-and-orange-wrapped candy. “Stuart, you sweet, sneaky devil.”

  She unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth.

  * * * *

  The long straightaway, flanked by a pumpkin field on one side and a cornfield on the other, was quiet after farming hours, with homes on the hilly terrain overlooking the fields going dark by eight p.m.

  A vintage Trans Am, the same that had roared alongside Candace’s bus earlier that day, hurtled along this stretch, scattering leaves to either side in rattling waves.

  The muscle car’s driver, Ryan Fray, wearing a pirate hat, massive gold hoop earring, and a ragged striped vest over his bull-like physique, bounced a rubber spider in the face of the girl beside him—Helga, Candace’s bus driver.

  “Eek!” She daintily held the back of her hand to her face, like the medieval damsel her costume depicted, then shoved the jiggly toy back at him.

  “Ah, c’mon!” Ryan thrust it at her again. “You can at least play along!”

  “It didn’t scare me last year, Ryan,” she said. “Or back in grade school.”

  In the back, Trudy Tornquist’s killer curves were on full display in a shiny royal-blue catsuit. Angus, whose inflatable muscle suit was surely an ironic jab at his own scrawny physique, clinked his beer bottle with hers, quipping, “Sad. Guess the honeymoon’s over.”

  Trudy raised her bottle. “Here’s to the senior-year itch!”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Ryan tossed the spider back at them. “Pass me one of those.”

  As Trudy handed it up, Helga intercepted.

  “Huh-uh-!” she teased. “Not just yet!”

  “Aw, come on! I just want a sip.”

  Helga eyed him sideways as she took that sip. “If you’re a good boy at the lake.”

  “By ‘good boy’ do you mean…”

  Helga batted her eyelashes. “I mean bad boy.”

  Ryan’s eyes went wide, and Angus raised another toast. “Here’s to second honeymoons!”

  But Ryan was distracted by something in the road ahead. “What in the blue hell is this creepwad doing?”

  Walking with an odd gait in the center of the road: a figure, trailing a flowing black Dracula cape, his back to them.

  “Maybe I can scare this bozo at least.” Ryan gave Helga a mischievous wink as he dropped to neutral, revved the engine twice, then punched it, heading right for the dark meandering pedestrian.

  They all saw the figure turn his head toward them, saw the ghastly jaundiced complexion and the crooked grin beneath a simple black eye mask. He was carrying a big sack, or pillowcase, sharp things poking through the bottom. He switched directions, turning to meet them.

  Ryan stuck his head out the window, hoarsely shouting, “Hey! Happy Devil’s Night, asshole!”

  “Ryan!” Helga was, once again, not impressed. “Knock it off!”

  But Ryan continued, straight toward the walker—who did not slow or run, but only kept walking toward them, grinning like a tiger shark.

  When Trudy buried her head in Angus’s inflatable chest, he hugged her tight, calling, “Easy, Ryan!”

  Ryan’s response was a cocky guffaw they all knew well.

  The figure stopped and stood stock-still in the middle of the road, waiting.

  “C’mon…” Ryan goaded under his breath, though he never eased off the accelerator. “Move, asshole!”

  Trudy emitted a high-pitched keening, her nails digging into Angus’s thin thigh.

  Helga grabbed the wheel and veered it hard, just in time to miss hitting the figure by less than a foot.

  Despite the sudden shift of direction and the sharp pain of Trudy’s claw hold, Angus kept his eyes locked on the odd man as they careened past him. What he saw in those eyes was not a display of bravado. It was not fear, but not exactly courage either. More like…a void.

  Over the roar of the engine, Angus heard a sound like that of a jackal calling to its pack during the pursuit of wounded prey.

  Then—only blurry chaos, as the Trans Am barreled into the rutted turf of the pumpkin field to their right, sending them tumbling into one another.

  An abrupt stop. Senses swimming.

  “Damn it, Helga!” Ryan shouted.

  “Don’t ‘damn it’ me, you asshole!”

  “Everybody okay?” Ryan asked.

  “Yeah, but… Shit.” Trudy brushed at her costume and the upholstery beneath her. “I hope you like the smell of beer.”

  “Aah, shoot,” griped Ryan.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have done that!” said Helga.

  Angus got his bearings and scanned toward where he had seen the bizarre creature.

  He was walking toward them.

  Giving Helga a nasty look, Ryan put the car in gear and floored the gas. But the heavy Pontiac did not move, no matter how loudly he revved the engine.

  With his window cracked, Angus could hear the stranger giggling eagerly with each step.

  “Great.” Ryan smacked the wheel and turned to Helga. “I should make you get out and push.”

  “Hey, guys?” Angus said in a low tone.

  “Maybe I will get out,” Helga asserted, “and walk home!”

  Trudy looked to see what h
ad Angus’s attention, while Ryan and Helga bickered. “Guys!” Trudy interrupted.

  Ryan and Helga turned to see Everett coming closer.

  “O ho ho!” Ryan said. “He wants a rumble?”

  “Get us out of here, dude!” Angus pleaded. “He doesn’t…look right.”

  Ryan, flush with adrenaline and anger, shoved the door open. “He’ll look even worse when I get finished.”

  “Ryan, stop it!” called Helga, grasping at him as he stepped out and doffed the pirate vest to display his thick chest.

  “You comin’ this way, freako?” Ryan challenged.

  Helga leaned across the driver seat and screamed, “Ryan, damn it, stop! It was my fault, okay?”

  Ryan drew a switchblade from his jeans pocket and flicked it open. “Hey, you want some real blood on that shitty, gay costume?”

  The man’s response was an increased pace. He reached into his pillowcase and withdrew a handful of knives and skewers and steak forks.

  Ryan’s courage fled. “Shit,” he mumbled, hoping he didn’t appear as scared as he felt.

  Helga scooted behind the wheel and went to work trying to free the Trans Am. Shifting back and forth between reverse and first, she hoped to rock the car out of the muddy mess.

  Trudy leaned forward to scream at Ryan. He turned to jump back in the car.

  “Ryan, you have to push!” Helga shrilled at him. She let off the gas and the car rocked back into the rut that it was only digging deeper.

  Ryan hurried to the rear, shoving the car with a mammoth effort. At the back windshield, Trudy and Angus frantically gestured and called encouragement to him—cheerleaders at the most important event in their hero’s lifetime.

  Ryan took a step back, set a deep three-point stance, and exploded, smashing shoulder-first into the Trans Am the way he smashed tackle dummies and defensive linemen. A hoarse scream roared from his red face as he continued to drive, finally dislodging the big Pontiac with an explosive whoop.

  Ten yards away the stranger grinned wider than ever, dropping his sack to break into a full sprint. He was far quicker than any running back—or any sane man—Ryan had ever encountered.

  Ryan fell to his hands and knees as the Trans Am rolled onto the road—but got himself up and bolted for the passenger side. He could practically feel the pursuer, and all those sharp things, less than a half-dozen paces away.