Demon Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

  He opened up with three shots, blasting off a leg and two massive chunks of bloody orange flesh.

  The remaining legs extended, twitched and then folded in on the ruins of its bulbous body.

  Pedro smiled as he wiped rain from his eyes. “K.O.!”

  * * * *

  Pedro jogged to them, followed by Hudson. “You dudes okay?”

  “We are, but…” he gestured toward his ruined hearse.

  “Maybe we can buff all that out when we do the cowcatcher,” Bernard told Dennis.

  “You guys should get over to the Community Center,” Dennis told Hudson. “That’s where most of these things are going.”

  “Way ahead. What about you?”

  “I gotta clean off some graffiti,” Dennis said. “Trust me. It’s high priority.”

  “As you say.” Hudson tossed his .44 to Dennis and unslung his night-vision-equipped hunting rifle for Bernard.

  * * * *

  “I see ’em!” Hudson, leaning out the window, handed his bullpup to the driving deputy. “Hand me the scope.”

  On the opposite side, leaning out from the rear, Pedro squinted into the wind and rain, scanning for would-be ambushers.

  Hudson raised the rifle and scanned for the most feasible target. “Looks like they’ve all mostly converged on the Community Center like Dennis said.”

  He fired, then turned to smile at Pedro. “Got one!”

  “Lemme have a turn.”

  “It’s not a game, Petey.” Hudson re-chambered. “Get one of those grenade launchers ready.”

  Pedro ducked into the vehicle and found the fitted M4A1 among the weapons aligned on the seat.

  As he rose, Hudson leaned in. “Gun it, Astin. Those things are about to get into the building, if they haven’t already.”

  As Deputy Astin accelerated, Hudson yelled at Pedro. “Start shooting as soon as you see the whites of their eyes.”

  * * * *

  As they crested the hill and came to Bennington’s towering obelisk tombstone, Bernard stopped in the driving rain to lean on his knees and catch his breath. “Damn you…Barcroft boys,” huffed Bernard. “You’re determined to kill me on this very hill.”

  Dennis took a bandana from his back pocket and trekked to the obtrusive grave marker. He ripped away the plastic sheet Violina had made him place over the summoning sigil and scrubbed the blood mark until it was a brownish blur.

  By then, Bernard had caught his breath and gone to work kick-cleaning the circle Violina had cast, reducing it also to a meaningless mess.

  He and Dennis exchanged a triumphant smile, as the storm began to quickly subside.

  “We get a medal or something now, I guess,” said the rocker.

  “A paid tropical vacation would be better,” said Bernard. “But finishing October without any more Sam Raimi–type shenanigans will suffice.”

  Dennis took a bag of candy corn from his jacket pocket, ripped it open, tossed a few pieces at the base of Wilcott Bennington’s grave and sat on the wet stone base, holding the bag out to Bernard.

  “Hey, is that harvest mix?” asked the engineer/chemist/warrior.

  * * * *

  McGlazer’s grimace of pain vanished when he saw the new storm pattern setting in and the blast of green lightning staking its claim on the sky and against the hate-fueled pumpkin mutants.

  This wasn’t a warning. It was an announcement.

  The horrid, human-esque faces of O’Herlihy’s displaced followers withdrew.

  It was hardly a relief; the smaller squashes remained inside the Center, undeterred from their slaughterous directive.

  McGlazer barely had the strength to raise an arm against the toothy terror that rocketed toward him. The next one would find his throat or heart, or whatever it wished.

  He looked toward Timbo, hoping for the tried-and-true, last-second salvation of hot lead.

  The rifleman was swinging the empty weapon like a cricket bat, mostly hitting nothing.

  Kerwin swung his board at the crawling creepers as Stuart raised and dropped the ten-pound dumbell repeatedly onto each foe that got close enough.

  DeShaun bashed the rushing pumpkin spawn with his push broom. But each thrust was less effective as the strange creatures grew more savvy and savage. They were quickly learning to dodge to the side and around the oncoming bristled bludgeon.

  DeShaun dropped the broom to duck as two of the little bastards sailed toward his face. Pockets and his young troops rushed to protect him, blitzing the sentient spheres. Their blows missed, landing sharply on the hard wood floor, leaving their young bodies exposed to snarling, flying counterattacks.

  The children screamed in pain and terror, breaking ranks.

  McGlazer wished for the nostalgic hopefulness of two minutes earlier, when they had only the overlarge adult creatures and their just-too-short tentacles to contend with.

  Chapter 38

  Trapped Like Rats

  Settlement era

  “You all saw it,” whispered John-David Pewter, his face nearly as white as the skull of the demon that lurked outside. “That was the Lord’s angel.”

  “We were wrong…” said Nicholas Weber. “We were led astray by Conal. And now the Lord has judged us.”

  Farrady stared at the hole in the door, shaking his head. “But…how? We worship the one true God. Bennington would have us devote ourselves to whatever god we wish. Like heathens.”

  “Do you really think a man can know the truth of God in a single lifetime?” asked Schroeder. “We are mere children.”

  He drank deeply from the jug of his poisoned liquor. “In this moment, I pray only for oblivion.” He lifted a fresh jug and tossed it to Pewter. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “You…sought to poison us tonight?” asked Farrady.

  Schroeder issued a bitter laugh. “Call it a mercy.” He took another deep swallow, finishing with the jar, then set it aside and lay down like he was taking a brief doze. “There’s enough for all of you.” He interlaced his fingers and straightened his neck. “Or you have only to step outside, if you prefer.”

  Farrady beheld the matchlock in his hands as if it was a mere toy. “God’s will is not to be hindered by powder and ball shot, I suppose.”

  Weber had stared at the jug since catching it. Now he uncorked it, drank deeply, took a breath and drank again. “I renounce my own soul.” He handed the jug to his nearest comrade and knelt, staring at the useless barrier of the door almost placidly. “Thy will be done.”

  Farrady leaned over to check on Schroeder and found that he was not breathing. “I say we fight the demon.”

  “Fight the Reaper?” someone responded. “May as well fight God Himself.” The man went to the crate and took up the jug of tainted whiskey. “He’s given us a choice in Schroeder’s elixir. Quiet, eternal sleep…” He motioned to the door. “Or the cold edge of the scythe.”

  He uncorked and drank, swallowing mightily, then handed the jug to Farrady. “It was a brave thing we all tried, coming here to this land, the Stronghold of Death Itself.”

  The man lay down beside Schroeder, patting the dead man’s arm with gratitude, then closed his eyes and breathed his last.

  * * * *

  Modern day

  As he ran at a cluster of cowering killer-pumpkin toddlers, DeShaun’s mega-sparkler abruptly died.

  The timing was perfect, as it turned out. The blinded baby demons ran almost comically into the walls and bleachers and under the gleefully stomping feet of yelling children.

  Kerwin Stuyvesant, releasing pent-up frustration from two years of painful silence, might have scored the greatest number of squash-squashings, relentlessly going from one to another as if playing a life-or-death game of whack-a-mole.

  McGlazer, his hands and legs still stinging, could only act as a spot
ter for the mayor. He knew every corner and cranny of the center as well as the back of his throbbing hand. He could reasonably predict what hiding places the blinded pumpkins might luck into.

  The mayor made good use of her soccer-trained muscle memory, landing a good many full field-goal kicks.

  When McGlazer heard the foosh of a propelled grenade and the flat rhythm of Hudson’s bullpup, he had to smile, despite his pain. The cavalry had arrived.

  A green flash and a louder boom offered even greater reassurance. Devil’s Night had just become Witches’ Night.

  * * * *

  Deputy Astin careened into the Community Center’s parking lot, calling, “Hang on, boys!” sounding for all the world like Bo and/or Luke Duke.

  Pedro already had a shot lined up with the grenade launcher on one of the horticultural horrors crawling at the edge of the roof. Though it was a gas grenade, the impact knocked the thing loose. It landed deftly on its four legs, but one of these splintered on impact.

  Screeching, the thing began a lopsided charge at the cruiser. Hudson sprayed it with the bullpup, just as Deputy Astin drove up onto the fringe-tree island.

  Three more slayer-squash crawled toward them, zigzagging deftly to avoid the bullets.

  The nearest made a ridiculous leap, covering forty feet. Pedro tried to intercept it with a grenade, but the shell flew off harmlessly toward the ball fields.

  The monster landed on the roof of the vehicle, its mouth open, ready to clamp onto Pedro’s head.

  He held it off with every ounce of his significant strength, pushing against the edges of its mouth.

  Hudson knew he couldn’t shoot. He and Deputy Astin leaped up onto the vehicle and started battering the thing with their weapons. Deputy Astin was smacked away, absorbing the full impact of the beast’s tree-trunk leg and sent sailing into the parking lot, where he slid several feet—before an elephantine foot at the end of a foot-thick vine leg descended, crushing the deputy’s torso.

  It was Conal.

  The devil rushed toward the struggle between Hudson and his follower, catching Hudson completely off guard. The Conal demon snatched Hudson and hoisted him high, relishing his helpless state as the bullpup clattered to the pavement.

  A sound grew, a purposeful chanting, a multitude of female voices coming toward them from Main Street. The chant was accompanied by green lightning bolts, landing in near-straight lines upon Conal’s monstrous troops, blasting them to smoking bits.

  Conal turned his hideous visage to see them, slowly lowering Hudson to within…

  Pepper-spray range. “Hey!”

  Conal turned and caught a decent stream in at least one eye. Roaring with fury, Conal flung Hudson toward the Community Center to smash him to pieces against the wall.

  The high branches of the fringe tree stopped him, slowing his momentum before bouncing him back to the pavement.

  The witches came around the corner of Ecard Street, all holding hands and chanting together.

  Chapter 39

  I Do Not Fit

  Settlement era

  Everett did not mind the pain so much, since it was for such a good cause. Besides, he still had his face, folded up neatly in his pocket. He could put it back on later, after Halloween.

  Right now, there was a whole roomful of silly men having the stupidest Halloween party he had ever seen. No masks, no music, no scary decorations, just the same ol’ boring pilgrim costumes everybody around here wore. Pilgrims meant Thanksgiving, and it wasn’t Thanksgiving. It was Halloween, gosh dang it!

  Everett knew there would be resistance. That’s just how grown-ups were about Halloween. But then, when he got them ready, they sat still and made for good decorations, with their blood and guts and stuff like that showing. Well, they were also dead, but that was just part of the fun.

  Everett wanted to pet every one of the horses, but they all whinnied and got spooked and kicked and tried to run away, so he left them alone. It was kind of like his sister’s dog, Bravo. They just didn’t like him.

  Oh, well. He didn’t need to be liked. He needed to have Halloween, and for everyone else in the world to have it too.

  Everett could barely contain his excitement as he counted to thirty-one, long enough to build suspense, he figured, then charged the little wooden door and burst in, scythe held high like a real reaper!

  “Boo!” he shouted, then “Happy Halloweeeeen!” and he swung his scythe in an arc wide enough to cut off five heads—maybe six!

  But all the pilgrim guys had fallen asleep. No wonder, with this boring party. Everett knelt down and inspected the men. They weren’t breathing, let alone snoring, and they did not respond when he shook them or poked them with the scythe.

  Everett was sad. He sniffed one of the jugs of punch or whatever, and it didn’t smell very fruity, just pungent and yucky.

  With a sigh, Everett stood up and removed his hood. He was tired of this smelly town and its lack of Halloween. Plus, his face hurt now, and for nothing.

  Everett wandered outside and waved goodbye to all the spooked horses. At least they were having fun.

  He decided to walk and walk until he found a real place where people wore costumes and sang “This is Halloween” and put cardboard skeletons on their windows. Maybe he could even find Candace.

  Everett stuck his face back on to the front of his skull and walked toward the moon.

  * * * *

  Bennington kept a respectful distance, as Jonah Cooke released Conal from the dirt cell.

  “Chloris admitted it was likely someone else who killed my boy.” Cooke stepped away from the door and stared at Conal.

  “You’ll kill me, won’t you?” Conal asked. “Say I tried to escape.”

  “No, Conal.” Bennington came closer. “There are other bodies. You could not have killed them all.”

  “You’re not…not strong enough to…do what was done to my son,” Cooke said.

  Conal stood but remained in the cell, still wary. “Who then?”

  “I know who,” Bennington admitted. “God forgive me, I…helped him heal.”

  “It would be best if you would consider going out on your own, though,” said Cooke. “Or with your followers.”

  “Have you any idea where they might have all gone?” Bennington asked him pointedly.

  Conal shook his head and exited the cell, certain, after all this time, that they had all abandoned him. Perhaps they had even been planning a separate colony of their own, without his knowledge. He did not know whether to feel relieved or dejected.

  Cooke took him by the arm. “Move against Bennington or this town,” he intoned, “and I’ll kill you. You can be certain.”

  Conal left, fearing that, until he was well away from the jail, Cooke would shoot him in the back—for that is exactly what he, Conal, would have done in his shoes.

  He made his way up the hill and found the horses tied among the trees near his house. His friends were here, after all, for whatever reason, and had been for a good while.

  So why hadn’t they tried to free him?

  He found the answer in the secret rooms under his house and recalled the message of the mushroom. This was not his time.

  Buoyed by the knowledge that he would soon be resting longer than he ever had, Conal labored well past dawn, dragging the corpses of his soldiers to the stone coffins they had prepared, filling then with mushrooms and pumpkin seeds that offered the promise of resurrection in an age to come.

  Then he drank Schroeder’s poisoned wine and lay down with a sad smile, anticipating his chance to live again.

  Later that day, Bennington, Cooke and a wary posse of recruits would find the strange mass grave. Respect the dead, they decided, and leave well enough alone. The subterranean chambers were sealed off, the stairway and doorway covered over, until the year 1923, while the empty house was expa
nded into a gathering hall for the town and a sanctuary for those seeking spiritual solace—the town’s church, open to all.

  The rest of the town concluded that Conal must have fled with his followers. No one missed them, and indeed an annual celebration of his defeat and exile began to take place. In time, this would evolve into the annual Pumpkin Parade.

  * * * *

  Modern day

  The Conal demon, its awful face twisted into a pained orange grimace from Hudson’s pepper spray, spun around twice, like a broken wind-up spider. But Ysabella’s cleansing rainstorm favored him in clearing his eyes of the irritant more quickly than common water.

  Pedro pushed and pushed, but his massive arms only gave way more and more as the giant mouth of the pumpkin inched ever nearer to snapping shut on him.

  “Petey!” called Jill.

  Brinke broke the chant. “Don’t use the lightning!” she said. As she ran toward the parking lot, Jill lamented that the witch’s statuesque grace and athleticism were a few degrees diminished now.

  The other women closed their line as they continued walking, trying not to show alarm at the size and maddened motions of Conal O’Herlihy, the Anti-Great Pumpkin.

  “Numa Heeyosh Numa!” Brinke called breathlessly, as she came to a halt some six feet from the vehicle and the Pedro-pumpkin struggle, emitting a stream of pink light from her fingertips.

  Pedro’s assailant growled with confidence, barely affected by the repulsion spell.

  Jill began the beat of the march again.

  Brinke took a deep breath and stood tall. “Numa Heeyosh Numaaaaaaa!” she repeated, bringing the back of her hands together, and then violently separating them, as if…

  …Ripping the pumpkin in half.

  Pedro fell forward as resistance against his exertion suddenly stopped. For the second time of the night, brains, seeds and stringy pie filling splashed down on him like pig blood from the gymnasium rafters onto poor Carrie White, off in some subtler universe.

  “Yuck!” he squeaked, shaking his hair and holding his arms out to catch the cleansing rain shower full on.