Evil Harvest

by Anthony Izzo

  She wanted to believe that, but she couldn’t. She was positive her body would be found in a ditch or an abandoned warehouse.

  She jerked her arm, trying to free herself. He poked her in the thigh with the tip of the knife, and a dot of blood stained her khakis.

  “Get in. Now,” he said through clenched teeth, and she noticed they seemed odd. Canine. Fang-like. God, he stank too!

  She crouched into the car, the knifepoint in her ribs.

  “Get in with her.”

  The girl and the guy with the shaved head went around to the passenger side. The one with the knife told Carla to unlock the door and she did. The other two climbed into the backseat.

  “Take it, Rick. Keep it on her.”

  He handed the blade to the guy with the shaved head, who held it to her throat as she got into the car.

  The leader climbed into the passenger seat.

  Carla burst into tears. If only she had called Ronnie!

  Matt turned on the radio; Billy Corgan and the Smashing Pumpkins were singing about the world being a vampire. Even at this time of night, Matt switched on the air-conditioning. The dashboard lights glowed luminescent green, providing the only illumination in the truck’s cab.

  He couldn’t understand why Jill was hesitant to believe his story. After all, they had been chased by one of Them in the warehouse. And she had been the one who wanted to meet and talk about it, so that made it all the more puzzling.

  Granted, it sounded crazy. Monsters living under human skin and hunting people for food. Had he not witnessed them firsthand, he wouldn’t have believed the story either.

  He pulled the truck into his aunt’s garage and got out. Tucking his speeding ticket in his back pocket, he climbed to the loft, and once inside, turned on the light.

  His suitcase lay on the floor, open. A green T-shirt hung over the side.

  It reminded him of all the places he had been in the last ten years. And how he had run from the problems with his uncle and kept on running. He initially ran away because he didn’t want to deal with Uncle Rex anymore, but once he was on the road, he began to search for the creatures. Each time he heard about a strange murder or disappearance, he would travel to that city or town to investigate.

  That type of lifestyle wasn’t conducive to building a relationship with a woman. There had been some here and there; Monica in San Francisco was one of the better ones.

  They had been together three months when he left. He had jotted a note on a piece of legal paper and left it on her kitchen table. It was cowardly, and he knew it.

  He told her about his nightmares, but instead of the monsters, he lied and told her it was escaped convicts that murdered his family. He had walked out on her after seeing a news report about a Boy Scout troop in Seattle that spotted a strange creature in the woods.

  After that, he spent most nights in hotel rooms, eating take-out Mexican or burgers, watching pay-per-view until falling into fitful sleep. And playing back that day in Emerling Park in his mind. Over and over and over.

  For the first few months after they died, he fully expected them to pull up in the Bronco and take him home. He had even caught himself glancing out Aunt Bernie’s picture window, watching. He gave up on that idea after a while, as he did on the idea of settling in one town and being at peace.

  But why should he give up on Jill? He’d been running too long, pushing people away, putting up that proverbial brick wall around himself and not letting anybody in. And if you did that for too long, you could go nuts, become one of those guys who climbs a clock tower with a high-powered rifle.

  There had to be a way to convince her.

  First he would call Harry, the gun store owner, and see if dinner was still on. He took the folded piece of paper with Harry’s number written on it off the nightstand.

  He dialed the number and a woman answered.

  “Is Harry there?”

  “Who’re you?”

  “Matt Crowe. I met him at his store the other day.”

  A pause.

  “Hang on.”

  He listened as she set the phone down and yelled for Harry.

  “Hello, Matt.”

  “Hope I didn’t disturb you. Your wife sounded upset.”

  “That’s just her usual pleasant demeanor shining through.”

  “Dinner still on?”

  “Yep. You still bringing a guest?”

  “Maybe.”

  Matt heard a musical tone ring in the background. “Hang on a second, Matt, it’s my cell.”

  Matt heard Harry mumbling in the background but couldn’t make out the words. A moment later, he came back on the line.

  “That was Donny Frank, buddy of mine,” Harry said. “They found a body.”

  Matt felt the hairs on his neck prickle. His first thought was that the secret residents of Lincoln had struck.

  “Where?”

  “Griffith Park.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Exactly. I’ll pick you up. Where you live?”

  Matt paused for a moment, wondering if he could trust Harry, if he should just go off riding with him. Why not? He was a big boy, capable of handling himself if Harry gave him trouble.

  Matt gave him directions.

  He hung up and went down to the truck. It occurred to him that he might want the shotgun in case there were any of them still around. But there was nowhere to conceal it. Plus there would be a ton of cops around, and a loaded twelve-gauge might not get him invited to the policemen’s ball.

  “Hell with it,” he said.

  Harry pulled up five minutes later in a cream-colored Lincoln Town Car. He was surprised at the vehicle, taking Harry for a truck guy all the way.

  Matt climbed in the car. “Nice wheels,” he said.

  “I wanted a truck. One of those Ford Expeditions. The big sumbitches. But the wife outvoted me.”

  From hearing his wife’s voice on the phone, Matt had a feeling Harry got outvoted a lot.

  Rafferty pulled his Magnum and ducked through the door, fully expecting Jimbo to be waiting for him. But Jimbo was gone.

  The television set threw off a bluish-white glow, the only light in the room. A metal oscillating fan whirred, scattering papers. Rafferty swept his gun back and forth across the room. Jimbo could be crouched in a corner in the dark, ready to pounce on him.

  Satisfied that the room was clear, Rafferty stripped off his clothes and tossed them on the floor.

  He would be vulnerable while changing into his true form, but if he wanted to kill Jimbo, it was his best chance. He could do more damage with claws and teeth than with any gun.

  Rafferty willed the change to come, his human skin replaced by a rough, leathery hide. He grew seven inches, bringing his height to seven feet. His muscles expanded and bulged, bringing his weight to over three hundred pounds.

  It took minutes for him to become a beast. When the change was complete, he made a fist and punched a hole in the living room wall. Plaster dust puffed and chips spattered on the rug.

  He howled, a low guttural sound starting in his chest and rising to a shriek. A neighborhood dog answered him.

  Rafferty didn’t care who heard him. He wanted Jimbo to be shaking right about now.

  The hunt began with the scent. He tilted his head back and sniffed. He smelled spoiled meat, sweat, oil, hops and barley from the beer bottle on the floor.

  He ducked his head and entered the dining room. In this form, his night vision was poor. He flipped on the light switch in the dining room and a cockroach danced across the dining room table. He sniffed again, able to smell the bug, and if the bug had taken a crap, he could’ve smelled that too.

  Jimbo was above him. The scent came through the ceiling.

  Rafferty found the stairs and climbed them. At the end of a narrow hallway was an open door.

  Blackness beckoned him from beyond the door. Jimbo had surely left it open as an invite for him to climb the attic stairs.

/>   He stuck his head into the open doorway. Dark in here. He flipped the switch, but no light came. Had his enemy unscrewed the bulb?

  He sniffed. The scent of the hunted grew stronger and along with it the smells of dust, old leather and mothballs.

  The first attic step groaned as he put his weight on it.

  Movement came from above.

  He retreated as a heavy object slammed into the stairs from above, splintering wood. He picked it up, palming it in one hand. A bowling ball his adversary had dropped from over the railing.

  It wasn’t enough to even scratch him, and Jimbo knew that. He was just messing with Rafferty, trying to rattle him.

  I’ll rattle you.

  He took the stairs in three strides, attempting to reach the top before Jimbo could hurl another object at him.

  There couldn’t be many places left for him to hide, even among the junk. Stacks of boxes littered the attic, along with a rusted red bicycle, a copper floor lamp and an old army cot.

  Rafferty proceeded to the far end of the attic, creeping down the narrow aisle between the boxes and past the chimney. The scent grew stronger.

  The boxes to his right came crashing down and he deflected them with his arm.

  Jimbo in his true form leapt at Rafferty, claws outstretched and ready to kill.

  He backed Rafferty up, pushing against his chest and bashing him into the wall. He jabbed at Rafferty’s throat, but Rafferty got his arm in the way and smacked the clawed hand away.

  Jimbo tried to bite next, opening his jaws and cocking his head at an angle, trying to get under Rafferty’s chin and bite the soft flesh at the throat. Rafferty slammed his forehead into Jimbo’s face before the old bastard could bite him, and it snapped Jimbo’s head back.

  Rafferty clubbed him across the face with his forearm; Jimbo staggered, but did not fall. Jimbo rushed him again, leaping at Rafferty, but Rafferty let himself fall backward, and Jimbo sailed over him and slammed into the chimney.

  Wobbly and looking drunk, Jimbo tried to stand, but Rafferty, having the killer instinct of a big cat, pounced, pinning him to the ground.

  Jimbo raised his arm to protect himself, but Rafferty slapped it away.

  He bit into Jimbo’s throat and ripped out a hunk of flesh. Then he bit again, hard, right through to the spine, snapping it and killing his adversary.

  It was good to be king.

  Harry pulled the Town Car into a small lot that divided the park in half. The lot also served the community center, a small brick building located near the picnic shelters. Matt saw an ambulance and a police cruiser parked on the grass near a picnic shelter. Sirens flashed and strobed across the shelter roof.

  A group of teenage boys, some of them with skateboards tucked under their arms, had gathered near the shelter. Didn’t these kids have a curfew?

  Harry pulled into a space and put the Town Car in park. He shut off the engine, reached across Matt and opened the glove compartment.

  “Excuse me. This don’t mean we’re dating.”

  He took out a little .22 and a clip. He jammed the clip home, untucked his shirt and sucked in his belly. Tucking the gun into his pants, he opened the car door.

  “That gun goes off, you won’t be having any dates,” Matt commented.

  “No one likes a wiseass, you know.”

  They walked toward the picnic shelter, Harry strolling casually, Matt with his hands in his pockets.

  “You think that twenty-two’ll be any good against one of Them?”

  Harry looked thoughtful for a moment.

  “Probably not. But it makes me feel better.”

  CHAPTER 18

  A thud. The ambulance door shutting?

  Donna saw faces through a haze. It was like looking up at someone from the bottom of a pool. They shimmered.

  She felt weak, her head throbbing, and she vaguely remembered her head slamming against the porch deck. Her arms and legs trembled, her stomach swirled and her back felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

  The siren howled and the ambulance began to move. The faces became blurred and faded out.

  She was on an elevator. The floor light indicators flashed ten, eleven, twelve. It stopped on twelve and a pretty blonde in hospital scrubs stepped into the elevator.

  “Thirteen, please,” the woman said, smiling at Donna.

  The elevator stopped at thirteen and the woman in the scrubs stepped off the elevator. She looked over her shoulder at Donna.

  “You’re going to be surprised. He’s doing so well.”

  She knew the hospital was Buffalo General, for she recognized the sandy carpet in the elevator. That, and the button for the ninth floor was missing. She had always taken this elevator when ...

  When she came to see Dominic.

  The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor (she couldn’t recall pressing any buttons). She got off and made a right, then a left. Dominic’s room had been 1420. The hallway seemed longer than it used to, as if it would take hours to reach the end. The halls were empty save for a laundry cart and a lonely IV stand.

  She entered Dominic’s room to find the bed made, the sheets crisp and white. There was a note on the pillow, written on yellow steno paper and folded horizontally.

  It read “Sweet Thang” on the front. Dominic had called her that whenever he knew she was mad and he was in trouble. It usually managed to get a smile out of her, even when she was so mad she could have strangled him.

  She unfolded the note.

  Look behind you.

  She turned around and stood face-to-face with Dominic Ricci.

  “My God. You look great, Dom.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked healthy, his skin a glowing olive color, his hair shiny. The strong jaw was there, the deep brown eyes, the smile that had slain her the first time he had flashed it. Nothing like the Dominic who had weighed eighty pounds when he died. Before cancer claimed him, Dominic’s skin had been waxy and stretched over the bones. His cheekbones flared out, like they might pop through the skin. He had been too weak to have his hair washed, and the lush head of hair he once had became stringy and greasy.

  But here was the old Dominic, untouched by disease.

  “Hey, sweet thang.”

  “Where are we?”

  “I’m dead. Where are you?”

  “But your face, your appearance. The cancer’s gone, right?”

  “It’s never gone, sweet thang. Ask anyone who’s had it. It stays with you, even when they tell you it’s gone. In your mind, sweet thang.”

  Dominic only called her “sweet thang” when she was mad or when he was trying to jolly her out of a bad mood. His use of it started to bother her, because this wasn’t like the old Dominic.

  “Am I dead too?”

  “No. Not yet. Do you burn?”

  “Do I burn?”

  When she had first seen him, she wanted to throw her arms around him and squeeze, cover his face with kisses. Now she wanted to be away from him. He was acting weird, not like the man she knew.

  “It’s coming back, sweet thang.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “The rot’s coming back.”

  The skin near the corner of his eye became brown and bumpy. The patch of brown started spreading, becoming darker and turning black. It made its way down his cheekbone in a tributary until it reached the corner of his mouth. It was like watching time-lapse photography. The side of his face looked like a rotten banana in a matter of seconds.

  He took a step toward Donna. She backed up.

  Dominic brought his hand to his face and poked a hole in the rotting skin with his index finger. He hooked the flesh and pulled, his cheek ripping.

  Donna backed up farther, stumbling onto the hospital bed.

  His eye was visible in the socket. His cheekbone gleamed and maggots squirmed from the open ruin that was his face.

  Donna heard herself yelp, an involuntary sound.

  Dominic came closer.


  “Get the hell away from me!”

  The floor near her feet exploded open, sending pieces of tile ricocheting off the walls. She looked down to see flames burst out of the hole. They licked at her pants, raced up her leg. Her legs and lower back were on fire.

  A clawed hand reached out of the hole, gripping her flaming pant leg. It dragged her down. She reached for the sheets on the bed, trying to keep herself from being pulled into the pit. The flames scorched her as it took her down into the fiery hole.

  The thing that had been her dead husband put his hand over her face and pushed her down into the hole. His hand felt like a rubber glove filled with ice cubes. She felt herself draining, slipping away. She closed her eyes, the glow of the flames visible through her eyelids.

  She opened her eyes again. The overhead light hurt, and she squinted.

  The paramedic popped his head back into view, fuzzy at first and then clearer. His head was shaved bald, and a Fu Manchu mustache covered his upper lip and grew down the sides of his mouth like some crazy shrubbery.

  “Hang in there. We’re almost at the hospital.”

  The siren cut out and the ambulance slowed. As the paramedic opened the rear door, the world spun and she passed out into oblivion once again.

  Matt and Harry brushed past the teenagers. The cops had wrapped police tape around the shelter’s support beams. A sheet-covered corpse lay on the picnic table. Whoever covered it had done a sloppy job, because a hand with lavender-painted nails hung limply over the side of the table.

  A police officer, a lanky guy with a comb-over, shouted at the crowd to disperse. Nobody moved.

  “Wonder where the medical examiner is?” Matt said.

  “Maybe he’s on his way.”

  Matt noticed with distaste that blood had seeped through the cracks of the picnic table and pooled on the concrete pad.

  “Looks like quite a bit of blood,” he said.

  “Sheet’s soaked with it,” Harry agreed.

  The ambulance crew stood in front of their rig, gurney at the ready. One of them had a big duffel bag with a white cross on the side of it draped over his shoulder.