The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh.

by Glen Johnson

  I was to ask a few questions tonight when he returned. Asking more about these angelic offspring. And what had the world been like in those times; filled with such violence that God stepped in to put a stop to it. Also a hundred and twenty years the giants ruled, what condition was the world in? I even remembered him saying that even these giant nephilim had even more powerful children. That I couldn’t find written in the bible, so I was curious as to what he meant.

  I even found myself wondering what form he was going to be taking, man or woman or even another child; at least the child was easy to carry outside.

  I got to my aching feet. The fire was still burning with a vengeance in the hearth. All the same wood pilled up that had been there for days. Strange.

  Maybe he had done something to it. But it was alight and that’s all that mattered to me. If only I had put more thought into it. Wondered why the shoes still rested untouched on the grate. But no, my mind was too full of other things. If I had given it more though I could have saved millions.

  That’s the beautiful thing about hindsight.

  I needed a shower. But my stomach felt like my neck had been cut. That though reminded me of the small boy’s body from the night before. So sad. So young.

  I rummaged through my huge rounded Smeg fridge, looking for more things that might go out-of-date before the snow resided and I could get to a shop of some kind.

  Nothing roused my interest. I lifted the lid on the large deep chest freezer that sat in one corner of the old kitchen. My second shock. I must be tired, there was more meat in there than I realized. Whole chunks of prime cuts. Bigger chucks than normal. All stacked on one side. I didn’t think too hard about it, I must have put it there.

  I selected a bright red cut of pork belly, which once cooked would last me a few days. I put it in the microwave on a plate. I should have left it out overnight to defrost properly, but food had been the last thing on my mind as of late. While the joint defrosted I arranged the ingredients. I finely chopped some fresh herbs that grew on the inside of my kitchen window all year-round: basil, chives and sage, then mixed them with some extra virgin olive oil with a hint of basil. Once the pork had defrosted I rubbed the mix over the fleshy part, and wrapped it up tight with butcher’s string. I then placed it in a large cooking tray, on top a bed of leeks, soaked in Kopparberg pear cider and some dried herbs, then rubbed sea salt and ground pepper into the skin, in a mixture of butter, to make crackling.

  I then made a large pot of strong aromatic coffee; in the same style that I picked up when I lived for two months in Andhra Pradesh, on the south-eastern coast of India.

  I sat looking out my large ornate front room window while the cooker did its magic. I noticed the clouds had completely gone. And none sat on the horizon. Even the snow, which normally sat heavily upon the windowsill, had gone. Was the thaw coming?

  I now stood inside the parlour looking out the small, now clear window. Only a few icicles dripped from above down the pane. The three bodies were still lined up. None were yet visible; it would probably take a few days for the snow to melt enough to see the corpses laying there. What about the smell, I thought? The snow – for now – was stopping the stink from wafting around.

  But if the sun came out it would become unbearable. I would bury them I decided.

  After I topped up the cider around the base of the joint, I left the roast sizzling away, filling the old farmhouse with its amazing aroma, while I went for a shower.

  The bathroom was freezing after being in the hot kitchen, so I left the hot water running for a few minutes to take the chill out of the air. I undressed. Mud, all dark and dry covered my trousers. Where had it come from? The day before it was under my nails. Was I losing my mind?

  My stomach rumbled. I also needed an alcoholic drink.

  I showered, shaved, for the first time in three days, and put on a long thick fleece oxblood coloured dressing gown that had big baggy pockets, and some leather moccasin slippers that were covered with fur inside.

  I went to the sideboard and was about to pour myself a tumbler full of Macallan single malt whisky, but I was surprised to notice it was empty. Shit! Now what? Vodka I suppose. I used to love the clear spirit but then I became hooked on whisky instead. Oh well, a ride down memory lane.

  The next thing I remembered I was sat at the kitchen table, empty plate in front of me. The residue of blood smeared around the dish. Confusion. Another needed nap? But I couldn’t remember eating. I obviously had because I felt full and my plate was soiled, and my hands greasy and wet from the meats juice. An empty glass smelling of vodka was next to the plate, with a quarter full bottle of Stolichnaya vodka to one side.

  “Too much drink,” I whispered. Memory loss. Was I becoming a drunk?

  “AA here I come,” I whispered to the empty kitchen. “The Twelve Point Program. Hi, my names Jacob and I’m an alcoholic.”

  I pushed the thought aside; wanting to go through my notebook, review my questions. I was becoming interested in the bible research I was undertaking.

  But as I stood I realized the oven was still on. And more importantly something was still in it. I opened the door to my large farmhouse kitchen Aga-Rayburn. Black smoke curled out. The heat almost taking my eyebrows clean off. There, on a tray was my roast, all shrivelled up and blackened, with the leeks looking like burnt black eels.

  I staggered backwards gripping the chair back with my shaking hands. Blood! Blood also covered my hand. What the fuck was happening? What had I just eaten?

  The door was banging like a roll of thunder.

  Nighttime already? Hours had once again disappeared.

  “I need to get a fucking grip,” I said out loud to the empty kitchen.

  I pulled the burnt joint from the oven and slammed the door shut, leaving the tray on a thick wooden chopping board. Then I washed my hands in the big white sink, then went to the front door in my dressing gown and pulled it open. Who would it be tonight, I asked myself?

  “Hello, sonny,” said a happy old sounding voice. There on my doorstep was a doubled over very old lady. A little white hand-knitted shawl wrapped tightly around her plump shoulders. Long dirty yellow dressing gown, with long thick woollen red and white-striped socks that disappeared into a thick pair of fur slippers.

  “Snap,” she muttered as she walked past me, obviously referring to my dressing gown.

  She was a normal looking little round-shaped old lady. That is, apart from the large shards of broken glass that was sticking out of her white wispy hair and old wrinkled face, splattering her once clean shawl with blood.

  7

  All Wiped Away

  She took her normal seat after having waddled over, giving a loud sighing noise as she lowered herself down comfortably into its red studded grasp. Her wide hips just managing to squeeze in.

  It was an unsettling sight. The old lady, who’d obviously been through so much in her long existence, was not allowed to rest after her apparently painful death, but rather succumbed to being his mouthpiece.

  As she passed a scent was wafting in the air, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but it stung the back of my throat.

  Her hair was pure white and held in a tight bun at the back, with only a few white wisps of hair hanging loose. Her face was all saggy from all her worries that I couldn’t even begin to imagine. But the glass was unsettling, sticking out from every conceivable place on her head, shoulders and face. As if she had gone through a big plate glass window or possibly a car window.

  Small trickles of blood accompanied every wound. Her once perfect white shawl now a tangled mess of glass and red smears and torn flesh. And where had the knitting needle come from that was lodged in her left temple? I would get that answer soon enough.

  For the first time I didn’t sit right down, rather, I went to refill my empty glass. I burped while in the process of filling it to the brim. My stomach ached and was causing me a little uneasiness.

  “Been eating too much, that’s
your problem, my lad,” she said in her old relaxed voice. She gave a small almost silent crackling laugh that sounded like old parchment paper being screwed up.

  I looked across and was rewarded with her Cheshire cat smile, reminding me of who exactly was sitting in front of me. Of course she already had a cigarette dangling from her wrinkled mouth. Just the end perched inside, as if it was going to drop out any second, the same way all old people seemed to smoke, wanting the feeling of the smoke circulating their old lungs but not willing to hold the cigarette too far inside their mouth.

  For the first time I also noticed an old bag resting down besides her swollen fat legs, her ankles were of normal size. Water retention I believed it was called, a normal symptom for old ladies. The bag was a large woven thing with some sort of farmyard mosaic stitched on it. I paid it scant attention; all old people carry bags, always shipping something around, always needing to have something of theirs with them.

  She leant forward cigarette bobbing dangerously, spilling ash everywhere as she proceeded to pull out a big untidy bundle. One long knitting needle was attached to a yellow jumper she had been working on. A child’s jumper, possibly for one of her many grand-children, or even great-grandchildren. Like the bags, knitting equipment was just another thing they all seemed to have with them. Wherever they are; park benches, on the bus or chatting outside the post office, they all had that one thing in common – knitting.

  Old men were different; they always seemed to have an old well-worn bag with them, always the same type, flat bottom with an oval top and two long handles so they can carry it at arms length. It always contains tools. Why? Who knows? It’s a universal mystery. But they always give you the same answer. “Just fixing the so-and-so for the old widow thingy down the road.”

  My mind came back to the moment at hand, when in a sickening sight she reached up and pulled the long knitting needle out from her head, sliding it from the place it was lodged in her temple. I looked away. I swear I could hear it sliding out like someone sucking on a lollypop. Or it could have simply been my imagination.

  When I looked back she was rocking back and forth, cigarette bobbing around, knitting like it was the most natural thing she could be doing. The two needles now working away, knit-one, pearl-one. Knit-one, pearl-one. But now she had brick-red blood mingling along with the yellow wool, sliding down from her sticky needle.

  I carried my drink sipping it as I walked, taking my seat opposite. I dropped down heavily.

  She had the smile on her wrinkled face. One needle pointing at my crotch.

  I realized my gown had flopped open. A quick flick of the material soon changed that.

  She was simply chuckling away, sprinkling ash over herself. No wonder so many old people set themselves alight while smoking. Several times her eyes closed for longer than a simple blink, only to come popping open fast.

  I soon realized that the only time she would remove the coffin nail from her mouth was when she lit one from the butt of another, popping one straight back in, after the other was tossed into the fire.

  Coffin nail. It has been a long time since I thought of that expression. My older brother used to use it all the time, when referring to his cigarettes. But in his case it was right they did indeed kill him. His coffin nails.

  I pushed the button on the small Sony minicorder and was rewarded by the little flashing red light.

  I now identified the strange smell. It was a smell you seemed to associate with old people – cat piss. She either had many cats herself or she fed a stray. Either way it was a male that was for sure. The smell was pouring off her. It was tangible; I could taste it on the back of my tongue.

  Or possibly it was her urine. The smell you remember from your childhood when you use the toilet after you grandfather. He always forgot to flush and when you lifted the lid the water would be bright orange, and then the smell hit you. It always smelt the same – Sugerpuffs wheat cereal – you expected the Honey-Monster to jump at you from down the toilet. Up close the smell made me want to gag, but I kept myself in check.

  She seemed to close her eyes, still rocking back and forth in a hypnotic routine that you see all old people doing when you have the unfortunate opportunity of visiting one at an old people’s home. To them all it seems like a sport, all-trying to out-rock each other. Possibly a dynamo is attached to their chairs then attached to a generator, and they were powering the lights throughout the retirement home.

  Then she spoke, her eyes still closed tight. Knit-one, pearl-one. “You know, knitting has been around for thousands of years. The earliest example was from Egypt from the end of the first millennium AD. Originally it was a male-only occupation.” She nodded her head to confirm the fact.

  “Now, where was I?” Eyes squeezed closed tighter, as if digging up distressing memories. “Ah yes.” She went straight into the story where the young boy had left off yesterday. Same spirit, different body.

  “Females now abounded. Thin ones that were beautiful in the extreme.” She turned towards me, eyes now open again. “You see, they were much closer to perfection back then. It wasn’t too long after the Pair turned away from Him,” she giggled. “With my help of course.

  “Beautiful, stunningly graceful bodies. So perfect. So ready to be used.” She licked her lips. “And abused.

  “I showed the females many things. Things mankind was not meant to know. I revealed the secret of precious stones to them. They wore them around their sublime necks. You could say I invented jewellery.” The little old lady gave a chuckle.

  “The Book of Enoch chapter eight, verse ones states: ‘The fabrication of mirrors, and the workmanship of bracelets and ornaments, the use of paint, the beautifying of the eyebrows, the use of stones of every valuable and select kind.’ So much we passed on to mortals. The rest of chapter seven goes on to state how we taught man sorcery, signs, astronomy and the motions of the moon. And of course, how to make weapons of war – swords, knives, shields and breastplates.”

  A line of dribble ran down her chin. It ran off, tinted red.

  “Of course I had many names. Azazel was my favourite. It means Demon, or Hairy-Goat, a little joke. I also had many other names: Yegon, Asbel, Abaddon, Apollyon, Belial, Gaderel, Pineme, Kasadya, Mammon, Aristaqis, Samyaza and Semyaz, just to name a few, depending on what part of the world I was in.

  “We knew we could transform into flesh and blood, like I already said, so we used that gift. Many now joined me; they knew what they were capable of. Thousands left their positions before Him. All now rutting and grunting along with the rest of humanity.” A needle was lifted up, poking it at the air, as one would wobble a finger in front of someone. I was grateful of the fact that it wasn’t the one covered in blood. I also noticed it had a little twisting tally counter the end, to count rows.

  “How were we to know what the outcome would be? Nephilim they were called. Giants! We didn’t believe we were compatible, but obviously we were. Our offspring were a hybrid mix, human and angel. They grew quickly. Their strength immeasurable. They soon realized they were different and they used that, subjecting mere man as their slaves.” She was shaking her head now. An ash storm rained down. Dribble flying.

  ‘“The nephilim shall be called evil spirits when they come to live on earth. Evil spirits will exude from their flesh. Because they were created from a mixture of mankind and the Watchers who fly above.’ That’s also taken from the Book of Enoch.

  “That was the reason He caused the flood. Partly because of our hybrid children that now abounded on the earth. Giants among men.” Eyes closed once again.

  “I personally had seventeen children, all boys, they always were. No females were born to us.” A tear actually rolled down her cheek, catching on a shard of glass, it ran along until falling off the end, tinted red.

  “They all died in the flood, every one of them. See we could transform back into our angelic bodies, but they could not, they were mortal – be it somewhat mutated – beings like any other. T
hey were swept away with the rest of sinful humanity.” Her eyes glassed over, and she began to recite a song of old: “They lie with the warriors, the Nephilim of old, who descend to Sheol with their weapons of war.” She regained her composure.

  “Actually that’s taken from the book of Ezekiel,” she muttered absentmindedly. She continued:

  “I will tell you more about them, the way they were and how they come about, and what the world was like with them enslaving mankind. And of course the untold story of the giant’s magi children,” she gave a long sigh.

  “Like I already said we didn’t believe that our sexual liaisons with mortal females would lead to anything. Us being compatible? Angels and the offspring of Adam and Eve!

  “That was until they started showing the signs of pregnancy. Us, angelic beings of ages past were now going to become fathers. It was almost inconceivable we were completely unprepared