The Last Harvest(90)

“There, there, now,” Miss Granger says as she places her hand on my shoulder. “Do you think the Devil would let you stand in his way? You were nothing more than the seed.”

Burning with rage, I whip around, plunging the crucifix into Miss Granger’s neck, her warm blood splattering across my face.

“The ninth will be for goodness’ sake,” she sings in a childlike voice as she sinks to her knees.

“W-wait.” I grab on to her. “How do you know that song? That’s Noodle’s song.”

“Thanks to you, he’s coming, Clay. He’s coming for all of us. There’s only one more sacrifice to make.” Her gaze settles on Ali.

I look at Ali and all I can see is her climbing out of the cow, split right down the middle. The rebirth ceremony, that was real. All of it was real.

“If they need another sacrifice, take me,” I plead. “Take me instead of her.”

“You still don’t see.” Her final words gurgle from her throat as she slumps over onto the ground.

“Clay…” Ali writhes in the bed of wheat. “It’s coming,” she screams. I run to her side as a ripping wet sound, like something’s tearing through bone and muscle, fills the air. I watch in horror as a tiny hand bursts from her stomach. The thing slithers out of her body, to rest on the wheat, covered in blood and viscera.

The crowd takes in a collective sigh as the infant takes its first breath, but no one steps forward to claim it.

“Cut me free, but don’t touch it,” Ali cries.

I wrench the crucifix out of Emma’s neck and use it to sever the umbilical cord. The baby coos. It’s a boy. I try not to look at it, but I can feel its power trying to lure me in.

People are kneeling down to pray before him. People I’ve known my entire life—the reverend, Dale. They don’t see what’s happening … that this is the end.

I crawl back to Ali’s side, pulling her farther down the platform, away from the child, her body leaving a wide swath of blood in the wheat.

“I have to get you out of here … to the hospital,” I say as I try to pick her up, but she stops me.

“It’s too late,” she says. “Maybe it was always too late for me. Whatever you do, don’t touch the baby. I remember from the prophecy. Only the chosen one will be able to care for the lord. If you don’t pick him up, no one else will be able to—he’ll die.” She reaches out to touch my cheek. “You didn’t forget me. You’re good, Clay,” she whispers as her eyes turn to glass.

“No, Ali, no,” I cry as I gather her in my arms. “Help me.” I look to the heavens only to find the bodies of the priests suspended from hooks, hovering like macabre party decorations.

The child makes a cute gurgling sound. I look at it with such hatred, but it quickly fades. I can feel its power. I can feel him pulling me in, my arms aching to hold him. But I know if I pick up that baby, my life will be over, the world will be over. I’ve seen the death and destruction left in its wake. I think of my father, lying here, bleeding out as he tried to prevent this from happening, and I know what I have to do. There will be one more sacrifice.

“I plead the blood,” I whisper as I tighten my grip on the metal crucifix and open my veins.

I lie down next to Ali, lacing my fingers through hers. My blood warms her hand. If I close my eyes, I can pretend she’s still alive, that we’re just sleeping in my bed, but I know it’s a lie. I thought I could die in peace knowing I made the ultimate sacrifice for mankind … that I did something good … just like Noodle and Ali said I would, but I’ve never felt so hollow and alone. I’m angry about everything that’s been taken away from me. I’m sad about all the things I’ll never see. I glance at the infant one last time, with Ali’s dark hair and my stubborn chin, and try to take comfort in the fact that I went up against the Devil and I won … but this doesn’t feel like winning. It just feels like dying.

The crowd begins to shuffle, followed by hushed whispers. I open my eyes to see a girl with long blond hair.

“Noodle?” I whisper. I haven’t seen her with her hair down in years.

She drops the mangy baby doll that’s covered in blood at her feet and steps toward me.

It kills me that she has to see this, but I’m grateful I get to say goodbye.

I hold out my hand to her, but she doesn’t come to me. Instead, she walks straight for the child.

“This is what I’ve been practicing for,” she says.

As she leans over to pick up the child, I see the unmistakable mark on the side of her scalp, the upside-down U with two dots above and below. It looks like an old scar. Is that why she never wanted anyone to touch her hair?

“No,” I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. “Not Noodle.”

As she cradles the child in her tiny arms, she sings to him, a nursery rhyme from long ago.

“The first to fall will pray.”

Jimmy.

“The second to fall has come to play.”

Ben.

“The third to fall will shiver and burn.”

Tammy.

“The fourth to fall, a lesson to learn.”

Jess.

“The fifth to fall will eat his words.”

Tyler.

“But six and seven will go to heaven.”