Dark Harvest, page 4
He doesn’t have one idea about the right thing to do. That bottomless hunger churning inside him has jacked his response time around but good. So he hits the brakes, because he hates indecisiveness. The wheels lock up, and the car keeps spinning, but it doesn’t go far. When it comes to a stop the rear wheels are on the edge of the road, just short of the ditch. The headlights are still trained on blacktop, only now they’re aimed in the direction of the town.
As far as Mitch can see, there’s not a damn thing between the Chrysler’s front bumper and Main Street.
The headlights reveal nothing but road.
There’s no walking nightmare in sight.
“Where’d he go?” Charlie asks.
“Has to be in one of those cornfields,” Bud says.
“Or maybe we hit him,” Charlie says. “Could be the whole thing’s over. Could be all we have to do is find out where he dropped and shovel him into a bag.”
“No,” Mitch says. “I didn’t hit shit. Nothing’s over.”
Mitch is out of the car before the words are out of his mouth. He slams the driver’s side door. A second later, he’s keyed the trunk and popped it. Bud and Charlie are standing at his side now, but he doesn’t even shoot a glance their way. They know what they’re supposed to do.
Mitch hands Charlie a big flashlight.
Bud gets a rusty pitchfork.
Mitch takes another.
Twin headlight beams stretch through the night like spun glass, but the car’s not moving. Not now. From his hiding place in the dead corn, the October Boy sees three guys coming his way. One of them carries a pitchfork down the middle of the road; in the headlight glow he looks like a man walking the length of a freshly blown bottle. Behind him, a dimmer light bobs through the darkness at the road’s shoulder. Two silhouettes trail along behind that solitary beam, so close that they melt into a shadowy pair of Siamese twins—a pitchfork in its left hand, a flashlight in the right.
The October Boy clutches his knife, waiting, listening.
“The Chrysler’s skid marks start here,” says the guy standing in the road. “See if there are any footprints down in that ditch.”
Boots kick through a tangle of weeds. The Siamese twins work their way down the berm, heading toward the October Boy. “Shit, this is slippery.” A splash through a puddle, and more cussing. And finally an old beer can crumples underfoot as the flashlight beam slides over the ground, marking a trail that leads from the side of the road to a break in the cornstalks.
“These don’t look like any footprints I’ve ever seen,” one of the twins says, “but something sure as hell ran through here.”
The guy walking the road doesn’t say a word. He’s standing in the darkness now. The Chrysler is a good distance behind him, and so are its headlights. That pleases the October Boy, because it means it’ll be tough going if these guys make a run for the car…especially if they have something chasing their tails that means business.
The kid in the road kneels.
“Hey,” he says. “Shine that light over here.”
The flashlight beam skitters across the blacktop and finds something waiting there.
The October Boy’s carved teeth chew over a grin.
The boys have found the bait.
Mitch drops his pitchfork, snatches up an Oh Henry!, and rips into it. A couple quick bites and he’s got the whole damn candy bar in his mouth. He chews desperately, salivating like a son of a bitch, his jaws snapping together as if he’s trying to murder that hunk of chocolate before it starts crawling around in his mouth.
One hard gulp and a sticky lump of sugar makes a beeline for his belly. That sugar hits his stomach like a lightning bolt tossed by Mighty Thor himself. Man oh man. Five days with nothing to eat. Mitch doesn’t know how he managed to live through that, but he’s intent on making up for lost time now.
He isn’t the only one. Bud’s pitchfork is planted in soft ditch dirt. He’s on his knees in the mud, polishing off a couple of Clark bars he found down there. And Charlie’s ahead of both his pals. He’s filling his pockets at the same time he’s gobbling an Abba-Zaba. He’s working the flashlight with one hand, following the beam into that break he spotted in the cornstalks, picking up candy as he goes along.
Mitch wants to warn the doofus, but he’s got another Oh Henry! in his mouth and can’t say a word. He’s got to say something, though. After all, Mitch has a plan, and he needs Charlie. Charlie’s the guy with the flashlight. It’s his job to spotlight the October Boy while Mitch and Bud pin him to the ground with those pitchforks. That’s when they’re supposed to get the candy—when the Boy’s helpless, when Mitch can go to work on him with the switchblade and take the time to do the job right. Carving his orange skull until the light spills right out of it. Slicing through ropes of green innards until all that gutted candy falls to the ground, and they can chow down without watching their backsides.
Yeah. That’s the way it’s supposed to happen: kill first, eat later. But it’s no surprise that Mitch really can’t help himself any more than the others. He’s so damn hungry, and the candy tastes so damn good. Still, he knows he has to get a grip on things. He swallows hard, says, “Hey, that’s enough, guys. We gotta be careful—”
“Yeah,” Bud says. “You’re right, Mitch.”
Charlie doesn’t say anything.
Charlie has already disappeared into the corn.
Charlie hears Mitch yelling, but that doesn’t slow him down. He’s ten feet into the field. There’s a narrow trail pushing through the dead stalks, and up ahead he spots a heavy sprinkling of Atomic Fireballs and Candy Corn. Hell, it isn’t exactly a trail of blood, but in this case Charlie’s pretty sure that it means the same thing.
The flashlight beam plays over the narrow path. Charlie follows along behind it, picking up those Atomic Fireballs as he goes. He’s starting to wish he’d brought a sack with him. And he’s starting to figure that Mitch has gotta be wrong about missing the October Boy with the Chrysler. Gotta be. Because Ol’ Hacksaw Face is losing candy like a busted piñata, which is about what you’d expect if a walking tangle of vines went head to head with a hunk of Detroit steel going eighty miles per.
The more candy Charlie finds, the more he’s convinced of that. Any second now, he expects the flashlight beam to reveal what’s left of Sawtooth Jack there on the ground, dim light flickering in his busted-up noggin, a thick patch of mushed Bit-O-Honeys and Red Vines staining his shirt.
But that’s not what Charlie sees up ahead. Not at all. In fact, it’s not what he sees that’s important. It’s the smell that hangs in the air that counts. And it’s not chocolate, or caramel, or marshmallow filling, but an odd mix of scorched cinnamon, gunpowder, and melting wax.
There’s a soft rustle behind Charlie. As he turns, he’s certain he’s going to see Mitch or Bud catching up to him, but you’ve already figured out that isn’t what’s creeping up on him out there in that cornfield.
Hey, that’s no surprise, because you’re a whole lot smarter than our buddy Charlie, aren’t you?
Tell the truth now—who the hell isn’t?
The kid with the flashlight is wearing a leather jacket and motorcycle boots, but the October Boy can tell right off that he’s not tough at all. The little punk nearly screams bloody murder as the Boy lays the well-honed edge of the butcher knife against his jugular.
But the kid doesn’t scream. He knows better. He barely whimpers. The October Boy’s razored grin glows fiercely, a tiger-stripe of yellow light spilling across his wicked maw. The man with the knife had tried to muzzle him, but the October Boy isn’t muzzled anymore. The Atomic Fireballs the man stuffed into his hollow head are gone now. The Boy spit every one of them onto the trail. He can speak again, and the words that cross his carved teeth are so simple and direct that even an idiot like Charlie Gunther can understand them.
“Give me the flashlight,” the October Boy says.
His voice is sandpaper and battery acid. Charlie does what he’s told, and right away. Back there on the road, Mitch is calling his name, but Charlie doesn’t dare answer him. Even so, the October Boy’s knife stays right there against his throat. Charlie feels his blood pounding against it, and the thing standing in front of him keeps right on smiling as Mitch yells louder and louder and louder.
“Don’t listen to him,” the October Boy says. “Listen to me.”
Charlie starts to nod, but he’s afraid he’ll cut off his own head if he does. And his fears aren’t misplaced—that knife blade presses harder, imprinting a deeper furrow in Charlie’s flesh. And the knife’s not even the worst of it. As far as Charlie’s concerned, that prize goes to the monster’s voice, which works over Charlie like some radioactive sandstorm in a sci-fi movie.
“You’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlie says. “I’ll do anything.”
The October Boy steps back, taking the knife with him.
He shines Charlie’s flashlight at the road.
The instructions he gives aren’t complicated.
He says, “Run.”
“Maybe we should get the car,” Bud says. “We can drive it down here, aim the headlights where we want to. That way we can see what the hell we’re doing until Charlie drags his ass out of that field.”
Mitch shakes his head. No way. He’s not walking all the way back to the car, not with Charlie vanishing like the goddamn Invisible Man. That would put him a couple hundred yards up the road, and Bud right here, and Charlie god knows where. Splitting up like that wouldn’t be smart.
So he yells Charlie’s name. Loud. For the fifth goddamn time.
For the fifth goddamn time, he doesn’t get an answer.
“That dipstick.” Mitch sighs. “I should have left him back in town—”
And just that fast there’s a sharp snap crackle pop of activity up ahead of them. It sounds like an avalanche of busting bones out there in the cornfield. Something bursts through the cornstalk wall on the other side of the drainage ditch. It crosses that dark furrow and is up on the road before Mitch can even close his yap, and it hits the blacktop running just as the cornstalks crackle again and a second figure emerges from the field like a misplaced shadow holding a flashlight—
And the running thing’s closing on Mitch. The first thing out of the chute. The thing without a flashlight. Mitch grabs his pitchfork. From the side of the road, the pursuer’s flashlight beam skitters through the darkness and plays into Mitch’s eyes, and then it’s erased by that front-running pocket of midnight heading straight for him, and he cocks the fork over his shoulder like a javelin, and he lets that sucker fly—
“Mitch, don’t!”
—and the running thing catches all four teeth square in the chest—
“Mitch! Jesus Christ!”
—and that’s Bud’s voice, coming from behind. But Bud can’t see what the hell’s going on from his position. Mitch is sure of that, the same way he’s sure that he hit what he aimed at, because the thing is staggering across the road now, nearly dead on its feet. And so he can’t figure out why Bud is pushing past him, ready with his own pitchfork, which he sends whistling through the night with a short, sharp grunt of effort.
It sails over the head of the thing Mitch speared, straight at the figure holding the flashlight.
Mitch shouts a warning: “Charlie! Get out of the way!”
The holder of the flashlight steps to the side, dodging the tossed fork, and Bud’s weapon clatters over the blacktop.
The figure turns off the flashlight just that fast.
Its triangle eyes glow in the darkness.
So does its sawtoothed grin.
Oh, shit, Mitch thinks. Oh, shit.
He looks down, at the thing lying in the road between himself and the October Boy.
There’s Charlie, crumpled on the ground with four steel spikes buried deep in his chest.
For a second, it’s quiet.
The stars shine down. The wind doesn’t even whisper.
Then the October Boy bends low and picks up Bud’s pitchfork. Mitch yanks his switchblade, thumbs the release, and starts to backpedal as the blade snicks alive in the night. He knows he can’t panic. Maybe he doesn’t need to panic. He’s still got the knife, and Bud’s got one, too. That means the odds are still two to one and—
Behind him, there’s another chorus of snap crackle pop. Mitch whirls. Bud’s nowhere in sight, but you can still hear him, plowing a path through the cornfield, running away—
The son of a bitch! He ditched me!
But Mitch doesn’t have time to worry about Bud. The October Boy is advancing. Mitch is on the retreat. You can’t really blame him. He doesn’t think much of putting down money on a one-on-one switchblade/pitchfork rumble with a monster. Not when he’s still got a set of car keys in his pocket. And not when he’s got twenty feet of blacktop on the October Boy.
Yeah. He can make it to the Chrysler before Sawtooth Jack catches up to him. Sure he can. He moves fast, careful to keep those twenty paces between them, because the Boy has that pitchfork. Mitch wants to have plenty of time to get out of the way if the Boy throws it. But now Mitch has retreated far enough so that he’s in the glow of the Chrysler’s headlights…and that means he’s one hell of a target. And he can’t keep backpedaling, either, because suddenly the October Boy’s starting to close the gap.
The hell with this, Mitch figures. I’ll take my chances. I’ll get myself pointed in the right direction and launch my ass like a Mercury rocket.
And he does just that. He turns, and his legs start pumping, and he runs for the light. And he’s smart. He doesn’t look back. He’s not going to take that chance, because he doesn’t want to see that goddamn monster closing on him with a nightmare stride that’s Wilt Chamberlain times two…doesn’t want to see the grim light spilling out of its hacked-up head like some crazy-quilt headlight as it freight-trains his ass…doesn’t want to do anything but pick ’em up and put ’em down ’til he’s safe and secure behind the wheel of the Chrysler, knifing the key into that thick neck of a steering column, twisting it sharply as his foot pile-drives the gas and he peels out, leaving five bucks worth of rubber there on the road…slamming that running nightmare head-on…threshing its scarecrow ass like a big old combine…grinding it under his Firestones until nothing’s left but a smear of pumpkin and chocolate on the two-lane blacktop.
Uh-huh. That’s what Mitch Crenshaw wants. He’s halfway to the car now, holding on to his resolve like a relay runner’s baton. He’s not going to look over his shoulder no matter what. But as it turns out, he doesn’t have to, because he’s got a handful of senses besides the one attached to his eyeballs, and they tell him exactly what’s going on behind him.
First Mitch’s ears do the work: He hears the crazy whiskbroom sound of the October Boy’s feet brushing the road…and then that even rhythm hits another tempo and changes up.
A couple of quick severed steps…
A staccato rasp of physical effort…
And then Mitch’s body takes over and does the sensory work. A hot spike of pain spears the back of his right ankle, ripping a path that notches bone, breaking skin as it exits his ankle and drives down through his boot and the foot inside it. The damage is done by one of four rusty spikes attached to a pitchfork, and for an encore it punctures the sole of Mitch’s boot and strikes blacktop so hard that the metal shaft rings inside his skin, and he topples in a scream of pain.
The switchblade flies out of his hand. The road comes up and whacks him like a black tsunami. Mitch’s scream evaporates as the wind is knocked out of him, and he sucks a deep breath, and another scream is right there filling up his mouth, because the pitchfork’s heavy handle is levering as gravity drives it earthward, and that metal spike is twisting simultaneously in Mitch’s ankle and his foot.
The wooden handle slaps the roadbed, sending another sharp vibration through the pitchfork. Mitch nearly blacks out. He bites his lip and rolls onto his side. It’s a hell of a mess. A rusty spike has torn a couple holes in him, and just for gravy one of the spike’s neighbors is locked around the inside of his ankle and his foot. He knows he should yank out the fork and try to stand, but he can’t seem to get moving any better than a turtle that’s been rolled on its back.
And that’s not the worst of it. The October Boy is standing about fifteen feet away, right in the middle of the road, staring straight at him. The Chrysler’s Gorgon headlights reveal the thing clearly…just as they reveal the gleaming butcher knife that feeds stiletto-style through the knotted vines that comprise its left hand, filling it as long fingers wrap around its hilt.
And, seeing that, you know exactly how Mitch feels. He’s belly to the ground, staring up at a legend. It’s like staring up at Santa Claus, or the goddamn Easter Bunny…but only if Santa was the kind of guy who’d strangle you with your own stocking, and only if the Easter Bunny was the kind of rabbit who’d stomp you dead and peel your cracked skullcap like a hardboiled egg.
Yeah. You remember how it feels to go nose to nose with a legend. That’s why the stories they spin about the October Boy are all about fear. You heard them around a campfire out in the woods when you were just a kid, and they were whispered to you late at night in your dark bedroom when your best friend spent the night, and they scared you so bad tenting out in your backyard one summer night that you thought you wouldn’t sleep for a week. So there’s not much chance of separating reputation from reality when you look the real deal straight in the face. He’s the October Boy…the reaper that grows in the field, the merciless trick with a heart made of treats, the butchering nightmare with the hacksaw face…and he’s gonna getcha! That’s what they always told you…he’s gonna getcha so you know you’ve been got!!!!!
