Red Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  With his one good arm, Ryan fought to yank loose the ax blade from his throbbing shoulder, as water filled his lungs. Helga descended to the bottom, trailing clouds of blood from her stumps.

  Everett held Ryan under, turning to see the pale naked form of Trudy escaping into the woods, heading toward the road.

  He released the ax, watching it sink, and withdrew two construction paper masks: a happy seal and a smiling pirate. He dropped them onto the surface.

  Everett’s attention was drawn to Ryan’s gleaming gold hoop. He knelt and ripped Angus’s ear off, then took the hoop, tearing it out through the lobe.

  He pushed it through his own unpierced earlobe, excited by the pain, then took up his bag and went after Trudy.

  Chapter 19

  “You should’ve asked me first,” complained Kerwin from the hearse’s backseat, where he was mashed against the door by Pedro’s big frame. “What if they burn it down or something?”

  Pedro had plenty of room on his right side, but he couldn’t resist needling the mouthy manager.

  Jill rolled her shadowed eyes at Kerwin as Dennis again explained. “I told you. They have flashlights. Flashlights, Kerwin. You can’t burn down a house with a flashlight.”

  “That’s not the point and you know it, Dennis,” Kerwin said, turning to Pedro. “How ’bout you scooch it back over to your side a bit there, Mister Beefy Body?”

  “How ’bout you kiss my casket, cuadrado?”

  “It’s a big deal to them,” Dennis explained. “They’re good dudes. Breaking up the joint is the last thing on their minds.”

  “Still. You know, I told you. That basement can be dangerous.”

  Jill glared at him. “Cram a tampon in it already, buzzkill. You told us to make ourselves at home, remember?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t mean the basement,” mumbled Kerwin.

  “All this pants pissing has got me wondering,” Dennis said. “You stashing something?”

  “No!” Kerwin’s voice took on a shrill quality. “I mean, there’s nothing in the basement. It’s just that I’d be liable if…you know.”

  Dennis responded with a dismissive snort. “We’re the only ones using it. Are we gonna sue our manager?”

  “No! I just, you know, wouldn’t want the little chaps to get hurt.”

  “Yeah. ’Cause you’re such a conscientious citizen,” Pedro scoffed.

  “Maybe I am, Pedro! Maybe I have a sense of civic responsibility,” Kerwin pronounced. “Now how about reeling in those sides of beef you call arms and giving me some breathing room?”

  “How about you go dig a grave, pencil neck? Your own, for instance.”

  “Can the bullshit, everybody,” Dennis ordered. “We need to stay tight. The house is fine, Kerwin. You’ll see. We get our gear, we set up, we crash.”

  “Jeez,” Kerwin muttered. “Wish I had a stiff drink right now,”

  Jill drilled Kerwin with a glower.

  “What? I’m thirsty!” Kerwin justified. “And stressed! And…” He glared at Pedro. “Cramped.”

  * * * *

  At rehearsals Kerwin would snap his fingers, bob his head, and raise an occasional thumb at the band members, certain they were getting better because of him.

  Born into a family with significant real estate holdings, Kerwin rarely had to do anything more demanding than phone a property manager and sign checks. The result was a lifetime of bored entitlement filled with attempts at making his name in some niche of the entertainment industry.

  During his filmmaking phase, he had connected with a young graduate hoping to expose the IRS via a scathing documentary. The kid had no business acumen whatsoever. It was an easy matter for Kerwin to funnel the film’s budget into “business expenses,” like gas for his BMW or lavish lunches with young actresses.

  Armed with the hapless student’s show reel and his own mouth, Kerwin had no problem finding wealthy investors.

  As both producer and accountant, he made this meal ticket last a few months, until the student walked away in frustration, not only from the film but from filmmaking.

  For Kerwin this was just a temporary interruption of expendable income. Another would come along soon enough. Starving artists floundered in every corner of the world, a good many of whom either were or attracted eager young ladies.

  Along came The Chalk Outlines.

  In the waning days of the documentary scam, he had accompanied the filmmaker and some friends to a dive bar called Planet Six, just outside of Ember Hollow’s town limits. The clientele leaned toward trust-fund college students and savvy farm girls scouting for educated city boys.

  In short order, the film school boys became blitzed, while Kerwin paced himself through three martinis, enjoying the procession of denim shorts and tight camisoles before the club manager took the mic and introduced the evening’s entertainment.

  Kerwin found himself enthralled with this band’s aggressive yet somehow poignant presentation, if not with the music itself. But it was Thrill Kill Jill with her shocking white hair, spiked collar, and tight T-shirt bearing the logo of a voluptuous murder victim’s lines that first caught his attention.

  But then there was Pedro, with his tattooed triceps, traps blowing out from his thick neck like a basilisk’s frill, and demonic grimace.

  And finally, Dennis, billed as Kenny Killmore: lean physique and matinee idol looks—if said idol was a vampire, of course. His guitar and vocals spoke of defiance warring with despair.

  This unholy trio was a perfect storm of punk attitude, camp, and pro wrestler charisma.

  Kerwin, more of a Crosby, Stills, etcetera kind of guy, had seen punk acts before. He might have been willing to admit they…alarmed him. But this mutation of punk and rockabilly was new to him. He found himself tapping his toes to their slick sick style, and soon, his gears were turning.

  Any form of cult entertainment will have its detractors, some aggressive. Within minutes of the Outlines’ intro, boos rose. Farm boys stood to pump their thumbs down, square chicks bitched to one another that they couldn’t dance to it. Then came a flying ashtray that missed Dennis by an inch—and crashed behind Jill.

  The music stopped. Kerwin tensed as he watched Kenny Kilmore set himself to address the crowd.

  He first produced a pack of cigs from the front pocket of his black jeans, slapped one out, and lit it with an old-school wooden match. He tossed the smoking match into the half-empty beer mug of a scowling patron and exhaled the first puff.

  The singer adjusted the microphone. “I see a lot of 555 out there.”

  Kerwin would later learn that 555 was a term extreme musicians used to refer to average folk, not unlike “square.”

  “You guys don’t want to hear us play?”

  “Fuck no!” shouted a farmhand. “I wanna hear George Jones!”

  “What about you, fella?” He was addressing the fortyish man who had hurled the ashtray.

  “You guys suck,” he said. Several patrons shouted agreement.

  Dennis took another puff. “How ’bout this then? We go ahead and play our set, and if you don’t like it, ya tell us after.”

  Boos.

  “Or…we come down there and kick the shit out of each and every one of you.”

  Their collective voice was indecipherable, but it didn’t matter. Kerwin knew it was time to get to a safe place, and he almost didn’t make it.

  Dennis removed his guitar and pounced into the crowd like a panther, followed by Pedro, then Jill, her face a terrifying visage.

  Kerwin found a cozy corner behind a poker machine and watched as body after body hit the floor. Pedro was as powerful as he appeared, and Dennis had the piston precision of a Mexican boxer.

  But Thrill Kill Jill—she was both a wonder and a terror to behold.

  With no discernible fight training, she nonethele
ss sent large men falling or scrambling for the exits with her flailing black nails and stiletto-heeled boots, even as her clawed hands closed around any bottle in reach.

  Within minutes, the band had cleared the bar, reducing most of the cheap stools and tables to kindling.

  That done, they dusted off and went to work packing their gear. As sirens grew closer, the bar’s manager found the courage to approach them, swearing they would never see a dime from the gig.

  “Sounds fair,” said Dennis.

  But then, the manager had to press it. “You gon’ pay for all this shit too! And muh lost business!”

  “Hold on!” Pedro countered, but Dennis waved him down.

  “Listen, man,” Dennis said, calm as ever. “We told you these dudes wouldn’t like our sound. You said you didn’t care, ’cause you had a cancel and needed to fill the spot. We agreed at our regular rate…”

  “I don’t give a damn!” the manager shouted. “You started this fight!”

  Pedro grabbed the manager by his greasy apron and dragged him over to where the shards of the ashtray lay, as Dennis addressed him, ever the iceman. “See that, bro? See how close it came to my drummer? You coulda handled that. But you left it to us. So we handled it.” He looked at Jill, then Pedro. “Maybe we oughtta charge you.”

  When the police came in, the manager found a new vein of courage and mined it. “Officers! You see this assault?”

  The Outlines offered no resistance to the police, knowing when they were licked. But just as the handcuffs came out, so did Kerwin. “Gentlemen, please! None of this is necessary!”

  He went to the manager. “I think we can agree mistakes were made by all parties tonight, hm?”

  He broke out his ostrich-hide checkbook, the one that matched his boots, and asked, “Who’s got a pen?”

  “Who are you?” Pedro asked.

  “I’m the guy who’s gonna save your beefed-up bacon tonight, my friend!” Kerwin explained, adding, “Then I want to buy you kids breakfast, and talk about your future.”

  Chapter 20

  Ruth chewed at her nails, stopping to shake the pain away from the exposed quick. She wiped her fingers on her top, then fondled her crucifix. “Lord, help me be prepared and poised in doing Thy will.”

  She parked her car at the rear of the drugstore in shadows behind the dumpster and stepped out, opening the first two buttons of her top as she walked toward the front of the drugstore.

  Coming to the storefront, she peeked in around the “closed” sign and knocked at the glass. “Gosh darn it,” she muttered to herself, and knocked harder. Movement from the rear shifted the shadows.

  Ruth shone a sweet smile at Charlie Plemmons, as he came down the aisle and unlocked the door. “Hello, Ruth. I’m just finishing up. Everything all right?”

  “Well, mostly,” she said in a breathy tone. “I’m so sorry to bother you after closing time. Just have to take care of a few last-minute things for the parade.”

  “Can’t wait till morning? I’ll be opening early.”

  “Well…there are some girly things I need too.” Ruth blinked.

  “Oh. Say no more. Come right in.”

  “Thank you, Charlie.” She pushed the door closed. “I’ll get that for you. You go finish up.” She locked it.

  “Go ahead and gather what you need,” Charlie said. “Register’s closed, so just remember the prices. I know you’re good for it.”

  “Oh, thank you.” A shy, innocent blush.

  “I’ll be up in the pharmacy for a bit.” He turned toward the back. “Working on something for Hudson, so just let yourself out through the back.”

  “There is something else though.” Ruth arched her back a bit, thrusting her chest toward him. “A bit…unusual.”

  “Oh?”

  “One of the parade wagons has a scary dummy that’s a doctor. An evil, deranged doctor, like a global warming scientist.”

  Charlie furrowed his brow. “Reverend McGlazer didn’t mention that one.”

  “It was sort of last-minute. Anyway, it would sure set the scene if he had”—she lifted her hands—“a big scary syringe.”

  “Oh.” Charlie didn’t seem to notice her delicate sensual hands. “Most of ’em come with the needles already affixed, and that could be a hazard.”

  “Oh, that would be perfect! Authentic you know. He’ll be…hanging high, so no danger.”

  “Hm. Don’t know about that. Seems like a bad idea.”

  “Well, I was going to dull it down anyway,” Ruth explained.

  “That’s not as easy as you think. Maybe I should call McGlazer.” He turned and took a brisk step.

  “No, please. He’s so busy. I promised him I’d take care of this.”

  “Just let me see if we have one without the needle.”

  Ruth gritted her teeth in frustration and paced a short line along the aisle, whispering, “Help me, Lord.”

  She stopped and examined a wall of kitchenware: knives, pots, pans, meat tenderizing hammers. Confound it! All so messy.

  She reached for a long kitchen knife in a plastic package and tore at the package, frustrated by the crackling noise. Then, she spotted a miracle—in an easy-open cardboard blister pack, edged with light from the street like a divine signal, a turkey juicer. A thick syringe for injecting basting juices into the bird via a handy, thick-gauge needle, it would more than serve her purpose.

  Ruth snatched it from the hook, just as Plemmons appeared around the corner.

  “Here we are.”

  Ruth hid the package behind her back as Plemmons presented a small diabetics syringe, its business end neutered.

  “Oh! Thanks, Charlie.”

  Plemmons noticed her blouse for the first time. “Oh. Say, your, uh, button there.”

  “Hm?”

  He motioned. “Seems to have popped open.”

  “Oh! Why, I’m so sorry. I just can’t seem to keep it closed.” Ruth’s face might have gone red. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  “Please,” scoffed Charlie. “I’m old enough to be your father. Sewing kits on five, if you need one.” He headed back toward the pharmacy enclosure.

  Ruth watched him go, tearing open the turkey juicer.

  * * * *

  “Well, will you looky there? Still standing!” Pedro faux-gasped as he leaned far into Kerwin’s personal space to feast his eyes on the old Victorian in mock wonder.

  “Yeah…” Kerwin acknowledged.

  Jill turned to him. “What now? You still look buggy.”

  Dennis hit the horn, startling him. “Son of a bitch!” The manager raised his hand to show them it was shaking.

  “Relax already, will ya?” Dennis said. “Just giving them a heads-up we’re here, so we don’t scare the bejeesus out of ’em.”

  Kerwin hopped out. “You’d think you nobodies would wanna show a little more respect to the guy who’s putting you in front of a God damned record label suit in less than twenty-four hours.”

  Jill smacked the back of Kerwin’s head from behind, making Kerwin think Pedro did it. “Knock it off, already!”

  Pedro just flipped him off as he followed him up the path to the door. Kerwin unlocked it and led them inside.

  The inside was as black as soot, its musty atmosphere invading their noses like rushing water.

  “Ho there, Stevie!” Kerwin yelled.

  “It’s Stuart, squarewad,” corrected Jill.

  “Stuart? DeShaun?” Dennis called into the dusty gloom. “Sound off!”

  “They better not be in the basement,” Kerwin mumbled.

  Jill groaned. “Enough with the basement already.”

  “Ooooh shit,” Pedro said.

  “What?”

  “Who’s got a light?”

  Jill drew her Zippo and sparked it, cursing at what
it revealed.

  “Ah, no.” Dennis’s shoulders sunk. “No way.”

  They beheld, in the dancing flicker, their smashed instruments.

  “Shit in a sandstorm,” Kerwin said.

  Dennis raised the remnants of his guitar, clutching the curled broken strings. “My custom Gib.”

  Kerwin turned on them like a mocked prophet whose promised afflictions had come to pass. “I told you! I told you! You shouldn’t have let those kids come in here by themselves!”

  “Stuart…” Dennis ignored the outburst and went toward the dark hallway. “Where are you guys? Come on!”

  “We’re screwed!” Kerwin cried. “Damn you and your stupid brother!”

  Pedro spun and grabbed Kerwin by the lapels. “Better issue some retractions, big mouth.” He lifted Kerwin off the floor like a baby. “Yesterday.”

  Dennis stalked back into the room, glowering up at the suspended Kerwin. “They better be okay, little man.”

  “Hey, hey hey!” Kerwin mollified. “No need to get testy, guys!” Pedro dropped him.

  “I’m gonna check the basement.” Jill was halfway down the hall when Kerwin called, “No!”

  She spun on her bootheel and paced back to jerk his tie, drawing him face to face. “Your little basement fetish is really starting to toast my tits, douche face.”

  Kerwin found himself crowded into a threatening half-circle of Outlines. “Maybe it’s time you spill on exactly what is the big deal anyway,” Dennis demanded.

  Before Kerwin could try to answer, the hall closet door creaked open.

  They all crowded close together, their disagreement forgotten, and backed away from the darkened doorway.

  A pale and skeletal face, disembodied in the darkness, lurched at them with a moan. Small hands reached out. Then the figure collapsed. “Some kid.” Pedro lunged to catch him. It was Albert. “He’s hurt!”

  Jill found Albert’s flashlight on the floor. She flicked it on and examined the boy.

  “That’s not Stevie, is it?” Kerwin asked.

  Norman emerged in his bloody bear suit, squalling and swatting at the giant insects of his mind’s eye.