The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh. (34 page)

How wrong I was.

As I approached only a few lights shone from the large old house. I had moved toward the house from what looked like the rear side. There were open fields between me and the building; which promised warmth and protection from the pelting rain.

Tall long-needled conifers circled the field, keeping out the little amount of light the waning gibbous moon reflected, that was also struggling to break through the thick cloud layer.

Rain slammed down, I could feel it hitting my body, which was already biting cold, now starting to ache. My arthritis was starting to flare up in my knees.

I walked head down, tugging across the open field. My feet pushing through the thick boggy loam. Then suddenly I was walking up a slight incline. I came to an abrupt halt, looking down inside a vast hole in the ground. A large section of the field had been churned up. Ending in a hole I stood near, looking down into. It was hard to judge just how long the trench was that made up the destruction, the rain was far too heavy to see through clearly.

Something sat at the bottom of the trench; the rain bounced and echoed of its surface. But the light was too grainy and the hole too deep to see anything. Also the sides of the hole were too slippery to move any closer. It looked like something had fallen hard ripping up the field and coming to a stop below.

I had no idea where I was, so I had no reference to what it could be. Maybe a private plane had crashed and was partly buried around me. That couldn’t be, the place would be swarming with rescuers and police and The UK Air Accidents Investigation Branch. Maybe it was an archaeological site. I had to admit it was too dark and raining too hard to get a proper view. It could simply be a discovery track, digging to locate whatever they were looking for, and the vast hole was the main dig site. If that were true then where was all the scaffolding, lifting equipment, assorted machinery needed for an excavation this large? It could have been removed, taking shelter from the driving rain in one of the large barns. Channel 4’s Tony Robinson and the Time Team could be sat in a portacabin just on the other side of the trees.

It all came down to simple guesswork. How was I to know that it was something I would never have guessed, even in my wildest dreams.

I navigated around the hole. Every now and then lightning would light up the disturbed field, but by the time I glanced around, to see if I could catch a better look, the darkness once again dominated, and because of the lightning, my vision was even worse.

I trudged across the soggy field, heading towards the copse line and the old farmhouse.

I pushed through the trees, water cascading down over me, but unable to make me any wetter than I already was. Up ahead was the back of the farmhouse and its large wide-open yard.

A tractor rested under an old galvanized covering. Farmyard implements were scattered around, leaning against walls or stacked inside the entrance to the large barn. A flatbed truck was wedged against one wall, its wheels missing having breeze blocks in there place. On top of the flatbed was large, what looked like, terracotta pipes. Beside it was a horsebox, which fared no better. Against another wall was a pick-up trucks canopy that rested upside down, filled up with water. Also a rusty rotary sweeper lay on its side, with half its blades missing. Over outside the barn lay a slurry pump, which had been stripped down. Under another covering was a mountainous collection of what looked like fertiliser bags all stack up high.

I couldn’t hear any animals, no cows or sheep. Possibly drowned out by the sound of the hammering rain on the galvanized barn roof.

I kept my head down, so the rain wouldn’t run down the front of my coat and enter my hood. My feet splashed through deep puddles. Mud and straw filled the courtyard. No dogs came running towards me, skipping around barking. Inside as well I suspect, out of the rain and biting cold.

I stood under the wide metal veranda above the backdoor. I didn’t know what I would say. I glanced around again. Something caught my attention, an old green Morris Minor, similar to the one that had picked me up when I was first running from the police. It looked the same, but it was hard to tell through the driving rain. Same colour and design nothing more.
Just a coincidence,
I thought to myself.

I went to raise my hand to knock on the thick oak door, when suddenly it swung open. There stood before me was the same little old man who had given me a lift. He said nothing; he simply stood aside and motioned for me to enter.

I stood unmoving while trying to piece things together.

Then suddenly a loud voice echoed out from the open doorway. “Enter Jacob.”

Him! What was he doing here?

The old wrinkled man wandered off, arms hung limply at his sides, leaving the door wide open, disappearing around a dark corner down the hallway. Uncaring if I entered or not.

I entered.

The farmhouse smelt musty and old; reminding me of the small cottage I had stayed in for the last few days. Then it hit me. The old man and woman were dead. They were dead when they first picked me up in their little car. That’s why the small wiry dog kept giving them strange glances, and why, when the door open to let me out, it had bolted up the road.

“Correct,” said the hollow eerie voice.

I still couldn’t see anyone. I walked along the small hallway. The stairs winding up to my left. To the right was a closed door, which was nailed shut. Three more doors, two on the left one to the right. Old worn carpet barely covered the old rickety floorboards. Dusty sideboards sat between the doorways, covered in chipped vases and dried dusty flowers. Mahogany framed pictures hung from the mouldy wallpaper; photos or paintings too dark to see. Only the end door on the right was open, light spilling into the cold hallway. Dust slowly falling to lay at rest once again, disturbed by the old man when he answered the door.

I moved along cautiously, wondering what would be in the room to greet me. My hand closed around the doorframe, as I stepped into the room.

It was large, possibly the main front room, or Great Room as it was called. Against one wall a fire roared, the yellow light spilling out into the room. All the corners were shrouded in shadows, dark and ominous; looking like anything could jump out at any given moment.

Furniture of all descriptions filled the walls; large delicately carved cabinets, filled with bric-a-brac. Stuffed animals hung from the walls and sat in dirty glass cases. Dark wooden sideboards nestled in a couple corners, supporting more grimy items. Several chairs, high backed and normal ones, littered the middle.

Oddly, an assortment of farmyard implements rested against one wall – a pitchfork, a couple bill hooks, a pick axe and a long edging tool. Alarmingly, they were all covered in congealed blood.

A large couch faced the fire. Four heads could be seen silhouetted against the firelight. One was trailing cigarette smoke.

They had been expecting me.

The Watchers

Moreover, when you hear of wars and reports of wars, do not be terrified; [these things] must take place, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom, there will be earthquakes in one place after another, there will be food shortages. These are the beginning of pangs of distress.

The Christian Bible, Mark 13: 7-8

As for human beings, their days are numbered, and whatever they keep trying to achieve is but wind!

The Sumerian legend, the Epic of Gilgamesh, Tablet II

Revelations

I
rounded the couch to find the four figures sat in a neat row. On one end sat the two old people I had thumbed a lift with, both sat motionless, glassy eyes locked onto the yellow burning fire, as if seeking more than just heat from it.

Beside them sat the two others. One was smoking – the very bus driver I had attacked in my dream. The driver was almost pure white from lack of blood. His clothes were dripping wet, coat undone, fragments of glass imbedded in his chest and head. His wet hair was plastered to his ashen face. The worst was his neck, ripped open and showing internal veins, ligaments and even one section of his yellowed spinal cord. Blood soaked his clothes. He sat, legs crossed, cigarette perched on blue lips, eyes glassy one moment, moving and alive the next. For a moment I wondered how he had beaten me here from the crashed bus.

Alongside him was another man, one I didn’t recognise. I had a feeling he was a work-hand from the farm, possibly the old couples son. He was about forty years old. He was wearing dungarees and a patchwork soiled red and white flannel shirt, along with big green Wellington boots. He also looked slightly disabled, possibly down syndrome. But like the others, he was now a host for something else.

I lowered myself into a seat to one side, close by the fire. Removing my wet coat and resting in on my lap, like a kind of protection. I put my rucksack back on. I have no idea why I kept the bag and all the money? Maybe it was simply holding on to something familiar because so much around me had turned to madness.

All eyes swivelled to me, watching me lower into position. I felt like a lump of meat thrown before hungry predators.

“This him?” the son asked, his large round, slightly bulging eyes passing over me.

“Yes,” the old man answered, one hand grabbing at his crouch as if something down there was biting him.

Once he had received his answer the son turned his gaze back to the fire. Now rocking backward and forwards slightly. His lips moving, but saying nothing.

The old couple kept their eyes locked on me. The woman slowly shaking her head from side to side. The old man still pulling at his pants.

“Not a pleasant night. Is it?” the bus driver asked.

My mind was numb; I couldn’t have answered even if I tried.
What was happening? Who were the other three people?

“Associates of mine,” the smoker simply answered. “Other fallen angels you could say.” As if reading my mind.

Smiles played around the old couple’s faces. Faces old and wrinkled and dead of any other emotions. It looked like it had been a long time since a smile had been etched on them.

The son said nothing. Rocking. Dribbling. Muttering.

“This has been their home and prison for many long months,” he stated.

Prison?
I didn’t understand.

“It has taken longer than we anticipated in getting you here,” the woman said. “We would have driven you directly here, but we needed more souls, the harvesting needed to continue.”

The old man stood, hobbling over to the fireplace and lifting the poker, he then proceeded to stab at the embers. He didn’t replace it after, but kept hold of it; gripping it like a club.

“Yes, a prison. No more than two of us able to leave at any one time, because of not having enough strength, enough energy,” the smoking man said, with smoke slowly trailing out the missing chunk in his neck. Blood bubbled around the slit the smoke escaped from. Bubbles expanded and popped in a sickening display.

“Soon we will have all the power we need.”

“Soon,” the other three whispered together.

Power?
I was getting more confused.
Why would angels need more power? Imprisoned in mere walls made by mortal man?

“Ah, he’s beginning to understand,” the son stated, moving his head to look directly in my eyes.

I lowered my gaze, unable to stare into those ever-shifting eyes for too long.

Smoker stood, coming to stand beside the old man, whom still leant against the fireplace. I felt like I was being surrounded. A pack of wolves positioning for the kill, and smoker was the Alpha male.

He rested one blood soaked arm on the thick oak mantelpiece, which was covered in dusty black and white photos, sat in thick wooden frames.

“See, we need human energies – your souls – to keep us alive,” the smoker said matter-of-fact.

The son clapped his hands together sharply, making me jump.

It made no sense.

The smoker started to move about the room. Talking as he walked. “This is a large old house. Many things fill its corners.” He looked directly at me. “Books. Many books. Old ones, some new. The bible also.” He picked up an old dog-eared copy of a black book off the mantelpiece. The New Testament written on the cover in faded fake gold leaf lettering.

“Truly an amazing book. Wouldn’t you agree?” He let it slip from his fingers; it dropped with a thud to the dusty dark carpet. A collection of pages ripped from the binding and spread out across the floor like a pack of cards.

“A book we created to administer control to beings who wandered aimlessly.”

His words made less sense with every sentence he uttered.

The old woman, who had been just watching, spoke. “You’re a primitive race. Still searching for things that don’t exist. Reaching for the unreachable. Needing beliefs and Gods in order to feel you have a purpose in your pitifully short, pointless, lives.”

“Your purpose is food for us!” Smoker said out the corner of his mouth, accompanied by bubbles of spit. “It has always been this way, since the very dawn of your kind.”

“With a nudge from us,” the old man added.

“At certain times we come to your planet to harvest souls. Energies to run our bodies and crafts,” he announced, fingers lowering the cigarette for one moment.

Crafts?
The image of the long channel and buried object sprung to mind.

“Yes. He’s beginning to see,” said the son in a kind of lazy lisp.

“Crash-landed eight months ago while en route to the harvesting grounds. Landed no more than a couple hundred yards away from this very spot,” said the old woman.