The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh. (21 page)

I shared the shabby, lumpy back seat with what looked like a terrier crossed with a rat, which looked like it had lost a fight with a set of hair trimmers. After I had snapped shut my seat belt it simply laid its head on my lap and continually stared at me the entire way, blinking so in often it even made my eyes being to water. It also kept whimpering and swivelling its large watery eyes – which looked like poached eggs – in the direction of its two owners, as if trying to tell me something. Later I realized why it acted that way.

I wanted to wind down the window, just a crack, to let the smell of musty dog and old people out. But I sat motionless, trying not to draw attention to myself, even though the couple seemed oblivious to me being here, not once speaking to me, or even turning their heads to check I was okay.

It was dark when we reached Exeter, having been dropped off by the quiet duo twenty minutes before. I thanked them profusely, but they just returned my thanks with blank stares. And I knew that the market would be shut hours ago, and wondered where they were really going. When I opened the door to get out, the little scruffy terrier jumped to the pavement and ran full bolt down the road, barking loudly all the way. I was about to tell the old couple what they had obviously missed, when the car started to roll forwards, yanking the handle from my hand, and disappeared off into the distance. The door still being open, until they slowly turned a corner that swung the door shut.

Shaking the strange incident from my mind, considering I had more important things to worry about, I concentrated on the task of locating the closest bank with an ATM machine, and then I proceeded to draw out as much cash as it would allow me, then simply finding another and doing likewise. I wanted to draw as much cash out before the authorities froze my accounts.

Luckily I had a platinum card allowing me to draw literally thousands out during my rounds of the ATMs. I also knew that as soon as they check the account they would see where the money had come from, so staying in Exeter was out of the question.

I drew as much as all the machines I could find would let me, having money stuffed into an orange Jaffa-Cake backpack I had bought at an Esso petrol station.

I then found the local train station, and after locking myself into the disabled toilet I proceeded to change the colour of my hair with the dye I had bought from a small express Tesco’s. Then I simply climbed out of my clothes, using my jumper to dry my hair, and put a black tracksuit on, that I normally wouldn’t be seen dead in, that I had brought in a cheap tacky clothes shop.

Then I stuffed my jeans and wet polo-neck jumper into the plastic bag the tracksuit came in. Then plopped the black baseball cap down tight, which I had also bought from the petrol station. Not even giving the dye time to dry properly.

I stood peering into the dirty cracked mirror. I was now a shadow, all black, black tracksuit and baseball cap, even my hair was now raven black. I hadn’t shaved since the morning, and decided to let it grow.

Before leaving the train station I walked around to one side, finding a clothes recycle bin – a big ugly green metal tank. I then emptied my old clothes into it. Then knelt down besides it and using the large clothes recycling bin to hide me from view, I used a disposable lighter to melt my credit cards and then dropped my wallet down the drain, along with my watch and ring. I had enough money on me, and I didn’t want to be tempted to use it again. And my unusual watch and ring were too conspicuous, too expensive to go with my cheap clothes.

I had my iPhone 3GS in my pocket. It was turned off, because they would be able to locate me within minutes. I kept it in case in came in handy at some point.

I now headed back into the train station and stood at the ticket desk, trying to decide where to head. London I decided. If you’re trying to hide why not step right into the rats’ nest. I thought about catching a flight back to America, but no, they would be onto me by now, and the airports would be out of the question. Besides my passport was in the safe in my bedroom. London it is then.

I bought my ticket, now waiting along with the other passengers who made a mêlée of noise. I instinctively looked down at my naked wrist to see what the time was, and had to make do with the large automated clock hanging from the metal girders above the platform.

Several times a male voice echoed across the platforms speaker system, but he was incomprehensible, sounding like he had just had – or was having – a stroke.

I waited the remainder of the time with my head down behind the Daily Mail newspaper that I found on the bench. People didn’t seem to notice that the pages never turned, just held up in front of my face.

Before long I found myself sat in a window seat at the end of one carriage. Baseball cap pulled down over my eyes, pretending to be asleep. Wondering what my next move would be. That is until someone slid in beside me. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice that was until he called me by my name.

Demonstration

M
y mind raced. I was used to people picking me out of the crowd, but that was only around where I lived, and only because they knew I lived in that area. One of the good things about being a writer was the average person didn’t know what you looked like, and cared even less. If you saw J. K. Rowling or Stephen King on your high street, you’d probably walk straight past, not recognizing them.

How did someone recognize me, I now looked completely different? Donning a baseball cap, and along with black hair and tacky cheap clothes. Not to mention my head was down, with the cap covering most of my features.

My heart was banging like a kettledrum. Sweat beading upon my forehead and the palms of my hands. I swallowed hard, my Adam’s apple bobbing like a yo-yo. I tried to appear relaxed, as if I hadn’t heard, and didn’t realize he was speaking to me.

I could feel the person’s movements on the seat.

“Jacob…?” The male voice said again.

It sounded like the person was smiling. I remember the long afternoons in church when I was much younger, the vicar would be rattling on, but when he reached certain points he would stop and smile. You could actually hear him smiling over the speakers, a sticky wet sound like a post-it stamp being pulled free.

I still kept my head down, pretending I wasn’t me. Making out I thought he was addressing someone else.

“Come now, Jacob, I’ve gone through a lot of trouble to find you, and the least you could do is say hello.”

I still tried to look like I had an untroubled face as I looked around. Had I heard right?

“Sorry,” I said. “Are you talking to me?” My face expressionless, like a lawyer asking for his fee.

“Now, now, Jacob, let’s not play silly buggers.”

The person sitting next to me was a ticket conductor. His suit was all wrinkled as if he had already been on a long shift, or had some sort of seizure. His white shirt was open on the top few buttons, his stripped tie hanging sideways. His white shirt now showing the days dirt, which had accumulated on the inside of the collar. I remember when I was younger; a dirty collar was called a
rising tide
. He was about fiftyish, and had half moon glasses propped on the end of his bulbous nose. A drinker’s nose which was bright red with veins creating what looked like a small city map, which was also copied on either, blushed cheek.

What gave it away though was the cigarette protruding from the corner of his mouth; smoke trailing up his face and around his lopsided hat.

“Yes, Jacob, it’s me. Surprised?” That terrible smile that will go with me to my grave.

I looked at him for a few seconds. I was actually relieved it wasn’t someone else, but at the same time I was angry with him for the position he had placed me in. I kept my anger in check, causing a scene on the train was the last thing I needed to do. He was drawing people’s attention as it was, by smoking on a non-smoking train. Luckily this was England and people never like to cause a scene.

I turned my head and just stared out the window, watching the scenery shooting past; grey sky and barren trees, which done little to alter my sullen mood.

“Get away from me, you’ve done enough damage as it is already,” I whispered, so quietly that if he was human he wouldn’t of heard, what with the dull rumbling of the train on the tracks.

“That’s the thanks I get for arranging to meet you here.” His voice sounded like he was generally hurt.

Bullshit,
I thought.

Then another thought occurred to me. “What are the chances of there being a dead body on this train?” I asked my eyes boring into him.

He looked slightly taken back for a moment before he had chance to change his facial expression.

“He was a very evil man. Trust me, I can read hearts and intentions. The world’s a much better place without him in it. His tastes ran to that of small children and livestock. Parents and farmers would thank me. In fact, the last time you ate a bacon sandwich, you probably got a lot more than you bargained for because of this bloke.”

“Who are you to judge who’s to live or die?” I turned away, not wanting to look at him, being angry for everything he had put me through.

“Who am I?” His voice raised a few octaves. “I rule this world. It was given to me for a short period of time, for me to prove the questions to the answers I raised.” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and with the same hand pointed at me, spilling ash everywhere, as he blew smoke straight in my direction.

“Do you think that when the Book says, in the book of John chapter fourteen verses thirty that,
the ruler of the world
, is referring to Him?

“That’s me – the wicked one – unless I’m very much mistaken. Do you think He’s in control of things down here? Mankind has been plagued with hatred, violence and horrific wars for thousands of years. Do you think God would let the world get into this state? Do you think the Book would refer to Him as the wicked one? No. Me, I’m the one it speaks about. I control this fucking ball of spinning dirt. I’m stuck down here with the pitiful, weak, snivelling human race. You fucking mud crawlers.

“It says in Second Corinthians chapter four verse four, that I and I alone am the God of this System of Things.” He was fuming with anger, all pent up and seemingly ready to burst out of him like an explosion.

“The Book refers to me in name, using Satan fifty-two times, and the name Devil thirty-three times.” His eyes were now wide and bloodshot. Mucus running from his nose.

“I have taken His angels from the heaven. I am the one they now bow to.” His hands were now all twisted with anger.

“In Matthew chapter twenty-four and verse forty-one, it says: The Devil and his angels. Mine, they’re mine.

“In Jubilees –” he seemed to abruptly deflate, as if the anger was just for show. His voice was now calm and collected – “and I will just add that Jubilees is one of the many books from the bible that has been left out. All because the roman emperor Constantine in the fourth century rejected it, because it wasn’t part of the Masoretic version. Some say its pseudepigrapha, or false writings. Its not, it’s even older than the book of Genesis, given to Moses on top Mt Sinai.

“In fact there’s numerous books left out of the bible you have circulating today. Books and scriptures mentioned when referring to other parts of its original self. Sections the very bible considers authentic and valuable sources of information – now missing, removed over time.”

He started rattling of scripture names, as if they would mean something to me. “The Book of the Wars of the Lord, mentioned in Numbers twenty-one verse fourteen. The Book of Jasher, mentioned in Joshua ten verse thirteen and Second Samuel chapter one verse eighteen. The Book of the Covenant, mentioned in Exodus twenty-four verse seven, which in some translations, even that reference has been removed. Epistle to the Laodiceans, mentioned in Colossians four verse sixteen. Also books such as the Tobit, The Book of Wisdom, Books One and Two of Maccabees, Prayer of Azariah and Song of the Three Holy Children, Psalm one hundred and fifty-one, The Gospels According to the Egyptians, The Coptic Gospel of Thomas, The Gospel of the Savior, and the Second Treatise of the Great Seth. I could go on for hours reciting the deuterocanonical books, for there are many.” He slowly shook his head from side to side.

“Mind you I am glad they left out the Book of Enoch because that was a veritable smorgasbord of information concerning The Watchers, as Enoch called us. That fucking Scottish explorer James Bruce found three copies of it in 1773 in Ethiopia.

“But my personal favourite from the New Testament apocrypha, is The Gospel of Eve, or Gospel of Perfection, as it’s otherwise known. The Church completely wiped-out all knowledge of this text because it justified practicing
coitus interruptus
, or pulling it out before the one-eyed monster spurted, and eating semen as a religious act. It was only because Saint Epiphanius of Salamis, from Cyprus at the end of the fourth century, quoted from it that scholars have heard of it.

“Anyway –” his anger came crashing back. It was like watching someone with Multiple Personality Disorder, and he was flicking between the two. “– in Jubilees five and verse six it states: Against His angels whom He had sent to the earth He was angry enough to uproot them from their position of authority. That’s us, His angels. Who are now mine.” Blood started to bead on his forehead, running like sweat.

There was an actual name for the phenomena, when someone’s so stressed and under strain that sweat runs as blood. The phenomenon is called
hematidrosis
. In the stolen bible I had been reading, it actually referred to Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, where he was praying to his father to give him strength, just before his arrest; blood poured from his forehead also.