The Last Harvest(22)

I’m bracing myself against the truck, trying to catch my breath, when I hear a horrible screeching noise followed by a strange sucking sound, the same noise I heard in my nightmare of Noodle suckling from the dead calf.

I walk toward the sound, around the back of the building, and into the alleyway. My heart’s pounding against my rib cage.

It’s dark, but I can see the outline of the dumpsters and something large in the middle of the alley.

With each step forward, the repulsive sucking sound grows. Everything inside me wants to run, but I have to see what it is.

I take my next step, and the motion sensor floodlights come on.

In the middle of the alleyway, there’s a girl in a Midland cheerleading uniform. She’s crouched with her back turned to me.

“Hey, are you okay?” I step forward, but a low growling noise stops me in my tracks.

Slowly, she turns to look at me, her dark hair spilling across her cheek, blood dripping down her chin, a dead cat clutched in her hands.

“Ali,” I whisper.

She drops the cat and lunges for me.





13

CLUTCHING MY jacket, Ali murmurs, “The sixth generation … he’s coming for us,” before collapsing in my arms.

“Ali?” I shake her, trying to get her to look at me, but she’s staring right through me, like she’s in some kind of trance. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her back to my truck. Pushing the chicken dinner to the ground, I lay her on the bench seat. Her eyes are closed now, but I can see her chest rise and fall with each breath.

“Jesus,” I whisper as I back away, dragging my hands through my hair. I kick the container of rancid chicken across the dark, empty lot. What the hell just happened back there?

I know I should just go get Mr. Cox, let him deal with it, or maybe I should call Sheriff Ely, or Ali’s parents. God, I can’t even imagine how that conversation would go. Hey, Mr. Miller, I just found your daughter in back of the Piggly Wiggly eating a cat.

I peer inside the truck. She looks so helpless now, but when she turned around with the cat clutched to her mouth, she looked like some kind of feral animal. Maybe she has rabies. We saw something about that in health class a few years back, or maybe it was TB … I don’t even know what the hell I’m thinking.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and scan through my contacts, stopping on Emma Granger. She put her number in my phone at the beginning of the year. I’ve never even come close to calling her before, but I can’t think of anyone else.

My hands are trembling as I dial her number.

“Hello?” she answers on the first ring.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s like I can’t remember how to work my vocal cords.

“Clay, is that you?”

“I … I need a favor.”

“Anything, and I’m so sorry about today. I—”

“I found Ali behind the Piggly Wiggly.” I clear my throat. “Eating a live cat.”

“One Twenty-two Pine Street,” she answers like she’s not fazed in the least.

I slide into the truck next to Ali and shut the door as quietly as possible. Going through town would be quicker, but I don’t want to risk being seen by anyone. The game will be over any minute now. Win or lose, people will be razzing me.

Using back streets, I make my way toward Route 17. As soon as I pull onto the two-lane highway, I glance down to see Ali curled up next to me, her skirt riding up over her hip. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve fantasized about having her in my truck like this … well, not exactly like this.

I’m reaching over to pull the hem of her skirt down when she starts making a strange sound, nuzzling her face into my lap. All the blood rushes to the surface of my skin. But when I realize the sound she’s making—that she’s purring—I freak out. Yanking the truck over to the side of the road, I jump out and start pacing. My heart’s beating so hard I’m afraid it’ll burst out of my chest. This can’t be happening. I lean against the truck, staring in at Ali. She’s lying there, completely still. What if this is just another nightmare? Or maybe it’s the schizophrenia kicking in.

What if none of this is really happening?

A semi thunders by, rocking some sense back into me.

I grab my toolkit out of the bed of the truck and wedge it between Ali and me as a barrier. The rest of the ride across town, I try to keep my eyes on the road, pretend she doesn’t exist. But the smell of her skin, her hair, only seems to deepen the ache. I glance down at her.

Even though there’s blood on her mouth, I still want to kiss her.





14

AS I pull up in front of Miss Granger’s house, I see her peeking through the curtains, waiting. I gather Ali in my arms. She presses her mouth into my neck and a shiver rushes through me.

Miss Granger opens the door and hurries us inside. “In the tub,” she says as she directs me to a small bathroom. I know this house. Jess used to take piano lessons over here with Mrs. Wilkerson, until she got Alzheimer’s.

Gently, I lay Ali down in the few inches of lukewarm water. Miss Granger checks her pulse, raises her eyelids, looks in her mouth.

I shift my weight, digging my hands in my pockets. “She’s going to be okay, right?”

Miss Granger gives me a curt nod as she grabs a fresh washcloth from under the sink. “You did the right thing bringing her here. She’s going to be out of it for a while.”