Liar's Harvest (The Emergent Earth) (22 page)

He left the kitchen and I put alcohol on another corner of the towel. This time Anne did more than grunt when I dabbed the wounds. I tried not to take any of the things she said personally.

I worked on Chuck while Anne changed clothes. He tried to be macho about the whole thing, but before it was over he was squirming and cussing more than Anne had. Between them I used half a box of butterfly closures and most of the alcohol. None of their wounds were debilitating, but I’m sure they hurt like hell.

Mine had healed before we’d gotten back to the house. Like the years I spent watching my wife age, being somehow exempt from from the trials that others had to suffer brought me a sour note of guilt. They were making sacrifices that I wasn’t and that was something that always ate at me.

Eventually Anne and Chuck were patched up and in fresh clothes. The entire time I was busy with first aid Henry came and went, dropping munitions on the kitchen table. When he was done, he sank down into a chair, sweat beading his forehead. He was winded from the effort, although he tried his best not to show it.

Anne began loading slugs into the fifty-round drum in her custom .410 shotgun while Chuck filled spare magazines for both pistols. “Wish I had something with more punch than this. If we see more of those wooden men sporting cast iron pans for armor, things are going to get pretty dicey.”

Chuck shrugged. “I’m sure we can find something better in town. Speaking of town, how about we take Mr. C with us? Could be handy.”

Henry pointed back into the house. “In my room, Abe. Top drawer of my night stand, if you don’t mind.”

Everything in Henry’s room was frayed and soft around the edges. The furniture was likely older than Anne and Chuck put together, and everything smelled faintly of cologne and old age.

The night stand was full of Henry’s journals, dog-eared and tossed in haphazardly. On top was Mr. C’s cigar box. I flipped open the lid and plucked him out. He remained curled up tightly in my hand, something that he never did.

When I returned to the kitchen and handed the small carved spider to Chuck, it unfolded gracefully in his palm. Puzzled, I put my open hand next to his.

“C’mon Mr. C. Hop aboard.”

The spider stood fast on Chuck’s hand, pointed wooden legs dimpling his skin.

Henry called the spider and it sprang through the air and landed on his shirt. He handed it back to Chuck. “I’m sorry, Abe.”

“What happened? I thought it was bound to us for life?”

“It’s bound to those who shared blood with it. I’m afraid you’re no longer the same man you used to be. The bond is gone, just like what was left of your old body when the ritual was finally completed. Mr. C no longer knows you.”

I never thought something like that would hurt, but it did. One more part of my life, gone. “What if I donate another drop of blood?”

Henry shook his head. “Not a good idea. Remember what happened to the thorns Prime stuck you with? It’s just as likely that your blood would drain the animating force from it as forge any kind of new bond. I think it’s best to let it be.”

“Yeah. Makes sense. Looks like it’s on you to look after the little guy now, Chuck.”

Chuck pulled open his shirt pocket and made clicking noises with his mouth, like you would to call a dog. Mr. C dashed over to him and flowed up his shirt and down into the pocket. “No problem. Let’s go.”

We loaded up the Rover and said goodbye to Henry, who watched us leave with guarded eyes.

It was time to hunt.

36

T
here was a patrol car blocking the road into town. The lightbar on the roof was flashing in time with the strobes in the grill and a long smear of blood ran across the hood from the shattered windshield to the front bumper. All of the tires had been slashed.

I pulled the Land Rover onto the shoulder, then looked at Anne and touched my nose. Her gaze turned inward for a moment, then she shook her head.

“I’ll be right back. You two stay here.” I got out and walked over to the patrol car. The only intact glass was the rear window and there was also blood on the ground by the driver’s door to go with the mess in front of the car.

It looked like the officers had been sitting in the car when the attack came. The driver had been pulled out of the side window, and the passenger had been dragged out of the windshield. A trail of blood and disturbed earth led to the trees about twenty yards off the road.

I expected to find a couple of shriveled corpses missing their blood. Instead, all I found was blood. Well, almost. The hands, feet, and heads of the corpses were still here, as well as a mix of unrecognizable human organs and shredded clothing. I wanted to look away, but I know what Henry would have done, so I steeled myself and peered closely at the grisly aftermath.

The hands and feet had been severed cleanly at wrist and ankle, not torn free as I would have expected. The neck was in similar condition, although not all at once. There was nothing neat or surgical about the remainder of the bodies. Just a horrifying pile of meat.

I went back to the patrol car and used Hunger to pry open the trunk. As I’d hoped, there was a police-issue Mossberg shotgun, as well as a black nylon satchel full of shells. I grabbed both and headed back to the Rover.

“Well?” asked Anne as I climbed in, taking the gun and ammo from me.

“Both dead, torn to pieces.” I described the scene.

Anne wrinkled her nose and pinched her lips. Then she racked the forestock of the shotgun to eject a shell. She glanced at it before reloading it into the weapon. The shell clicked against the loading port several times before she got it lined up and into the tube. If I hadn’t heard it, I wouldn’t have noticed that her hands were shaking.

Even so, her voice was steady as she passed the shotgun over the seat to Chuck. “12 gauge double-aught buckshot. Should be a lot more effective than your pistol. Even if we meet more of those things with armor over the knots, you can at least take off the arms and legs at close range.”

Chuck stowed the gun by his feet. “Thanks.”

The Rover’s tires crunched across the spray of safety glass as I drove around the patrol car. The low gray sky leeched the color out of everything, threatening snow and an early darkness. A mile past the patrol car we saw an empty beige Camry on the shoulder with the side windows smashed out. I kept driving.

The first thing we noticed when we turned onto Main street were the thin curls of smoke that hung in the still air. Partially charred wrecks sat in front of quaint cast iron parking meters down both sides of the street, sitting on slashed tires with their hoods up.

Except for the occasional crackle of still burning plastic, the town was silent. There was no traffic. And no people.

We drove down the center of the street at a walking pace, each one of us staring out the windows at the eerie stillness. A splash of color caught my eye, crimson smeared across the glass door of the Main Street Dry Cleaners. I hit the brakes and got out.

Without speaking, Anne opened her door and rolled down the window, then stood behind the open door with her drum-fed .410 shotgun. Chuck did the same with the rear driver’s-side door and his 12 gauge. I drew Hunger and trotted across the street to have a look.

The glass of the door was intact and unlocked. At this distance I could see that the smears on the glass were from a hand, slapped flat near the bottom, then trailing down.

I pulled the door open and warm, copper-scented air rolled out over me. There was a sticky black puddle just inside the door, stretching into long red streaks across the linoleum and curving around the counter out of sight.

I stepped around the mess and followed the grisly trail into the back of the store. As I expected, there was a similar pile of mutilated remains. A sharp breeze whipped past me and a door creaked.

On the back wall of the shop was a metal door, open about a foot. Bloody tracks led outside, some of which were crude approximations of footprints, and the rest just a mass of red dots in a thick line, as if someone had dabbed the end of a stick in paint and then tapped it on the ground all the way out the door.

The door jamb was damaged around the lock and looked like someone had forced it open with a crowbar. Poking my head outside, I saw that the door opened up into a wide alley behind all of the Main Street shops.

Every door to every store had been pried open, and most of them had those same dotted tracks leading out of it.

I checked out the shop next door, which had no dots or tracks leading from it. Inside was a candy store, barrels full of taffy and colorful hard candy knocked to the ground, but no bodies and no blood.

They had broken into every store, done a quick search for victims, then moved on. Very organized.

I found myself eating a candy bar as I looked around. After what I had just seen, the idea of food should have been revolting to me, but I couldn’t help myself. I gulped down two more before I left, knowing full well that my friends were out in the street waiting for me, exposed.

Back inside the truck, I explained what I had seen as we rolled towards the sheriff’s station.

“Smart,” said Chuck. “They went in the back, so nobody on the street or even next door would know what was happening.”

Anne chewed her lip. “Why would they even care, though? Besides, wouldn’t destroying all the cars on the street be kind of a tip off that something was going on?”

I shrugged. “My guess is that they wanted to catch as many people as possible before panic set in and everyone ran off in different directions. They probably destroyed the cars after they were done. I just hope the sheriff’s station is in one piece.”

We began to see more damage as we entered the center of town. Shattered plate glass was common and every car we passed was either burning or sat on shredded tires.

I pulled into the sheriff’s station parking lot, noting the absence of any patrol cars. Other cars, presumably belonging to the rest of the staff, were still there, although destroyed. I eased into a reserved space marked ‘Duty Sergeant’ right next to the entrance. If he showed up I’d happily take the ticket.

Broad concrete steps led up to the wire-reinforced glass doors and windows of the entrance. A white concrete overhang loomed over the doors, emblazoned with the seal of the department.

The front doors swung open easily and the now-familiar smell of blood wafted out.

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