The Harvesting Read Online Free PDF Page A

buzz
I’d felt the day I had arrived.
    “ Help them,” a male voice
said from behind me.
    I leapt up, nearly losing my balance
and going over. I righted myself at the last moment. I found myself
staring at and staring through the figure of a Native American
chief in full ceremonial regalia. He was young, very handsome, and
his feathers and beads were braided into his long hair. He was
clearly there and clearly transparent all at once. He knocked an
arrow on his bow, and the illusory weapon shot directly toward
town. I watched the arrow fly toward the community building and
then fade.
    I turned back.
    “ Help them,” he said
again. Another strong wind swept through. Like he was made of sand,
the chief’s image blew away, disintegrating back into the wind,
until nothing but the image of the bow remained. Then, it too
faded, blowing back into the realm of the spirit.

Chapter 5
     
    My whole body shook as I raced through
the woods to the cabin. My mind was in a fit of fear and
adrenaline. I clambered over the back fence and rounded the barn. I
was about to call for my grandma when I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher,
whose farm was closest to our cabin, standing, just standing, in
the driveway. The driveway gate was slightly ajar. I gasped and
slid back behind the barn. I could not get to the house. I could
not get into the barn. I checked my pockets. My car keys were
there.
    Quickly, I ran from the side of the
barn to my SUV. The “beep beep” of my doors unlocking woke the
Fletchers from their sick slumber. They both turned and lunged
toward me. They were amazingly fast. I ran. I opened the back
passenger door and jumped into the backseat. I slammed the door
shut behind me, locking the doors with a thump. The Fletchers were
at the SUV in moments.
    They were sick or maybe even dead.
Their skin was corpse white and their eyes were cloudy white with
red blood shots striking through. Their mouths frothed and they
lunged, over and over, biting and snapping at me. Bloody saliva
smeared across the black-tinted windows of the Range
Rover.
    I could feel my heart beating in my
throat. I climbed over the backseat and into the cargo space.
Suddenly I touched something hard. My swords. Who says it doesn’t
pay to be a medievalist? I pulled the shashka from the bundle and
strapped its scabbard around my waist. Then I unsheathed the
weapon. I had to find my grandmother.
    The Fletchers were flailing about at
the passenger side window. I took a deep breath and opened the
back. I slid out and headed toward the driver’s side. The Fletchers
moved toward the back of the SUV. Dropping low, I swung around the
front of the car. They were at the back. I leaned down and watched
their feet. I didn’t know what to do, but I needed to do something
fast.
    I took a few deep breaths and turned
toward the house. With the shashka poised in front of me, I kept
one eye on the Fletchers as I backed toward the cabin. The moment
they saw me, they closed in.
    “ Stay back!” I said, but
they did not seem to hear. They came toward me, grabbing at me,
snapping while bloody saliva dripped from their mouths. I swished
the sword in front of me to deter them, but they didn’t seem to
care.
    Mr. Fletcher grabbed at me.
    “ Get back,” I pleaded as I
backed toward the porch. He lunged forward. I sliced his arm, but
it did not faze him. His wife hissed and swiped at me.
    He grabbed at me again. This time he
ignored the sword entirely and pushed the blade aside as he tried
to grab me. I watched in horror as the shashka sliced his fingers
off. They fell to the ground. Mrs. Fletcher, her feet bare and
bloody, stepped on them as she advanced. I ducked and dodged
sideways. They pursued.
    In that moment, I remembered what the
man from the CDC had said: “brain activity.” Victims were
experiencing “brain activity” post-mortem. Was that what I was
seeing?
    They pursued me to the cabin steps. I
quickly ascended to the top of the stairs. I looked down at those
who had