The Last Harvest(8)

“Stop smiling at me!” I scream, rage boiling inside of me.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I haul back and punch him in the face. The sick feel of his waxy gnarled skin against my knuckles makes me cringe. Horrified by what I’ve done, I clutch my fist tight to my chest and crawl off him. “I … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Sure you did.” Lee just lies there on the pine straw, smiling, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. “I know all about you. We’re the same, you and me.”

Molten heat radiates through my muscles. I clench my fists tighter.

I tower over him, the edge of my boot inches away from his head. “I don’t know what your deal is, but if you don’t stay away from my sister, I’ll come back and put you out of your misery. You understand me?”

His grin stretches wider, exposing his crooked bottom teeth, swimming in blood. “I’m counting on it.”

“You’re crazy.” I stagger back.

His laughter follows me out of the woods.

My truck door’s still wide open, engine running, music full blast.

I tear out of the lot, back toward home.

I don’t know what the hell got into me back there.

As hard as I try, I can’t get Lee out of my head. His face. His words.

The Devil.

*

I PARK in back of the equipment shed so Noodle won’t see the truck. I can’t look at her. Not right now. Not after what I just did.

As soon as I enter the shed, my eyes settle on the spot where I discovered all those explosives last year. I buried them on a patch of barren land on the back acres. I don’t know what Dad was doing with all that, but it didn’t matter. He was gone.

Grabbing a hatchet, a shovel, and a couple of heavy-duty black compost bags, I head out to the combine.

I feel the weight of what I’m about to do in my limbs, like I’m moving underwater.

A turkey vulture passes overhead; I wonder if we’re headed to the same place. Shading my eyes from the sun, I peer up at the sky—an endless gunmetal blue with long white clouds stretching out like continents I’ll never see.

As I get closer to the combine, I tie a bandana around my nose and mouth and brace myself for the stench of the calf, the sound of the maggots worming their way through the innards, a glistening moist endless rattle that makes my stomach churn. I’ll never forget that sound when I found Dad in the breeding barn.

God, I hate maggots. When I die I want to be cremated. I know it’s not the Tate way, but this land’s already taken so much from us. I want to leave this earth nothing more than a pile of ash.

I crouch so I can peer under the cutting platform, but there’s nothing there. No maggots, no fur, no blood.

When I reach my hand in to see if it somehow settled under the discarded wheat stems, the engine roars to life, the cutting blade nicking my arm.

I scramble back from the combine, my adrenaline setting my nerves on fire.

“Tyler, is that you?” I peer in the cab, but there’s no one there. I run around the tractor. “This isn’t funny,” I yell over the roar of the engine.

I search for my gloves, the ones I left behind this morning, the gloves that should be covered in blood, but they’re nowhere to be found.

Holding my head in my hands, like I can press the madness from my brain, I scan the fields. I’m desperate for a logical explanation. Anything other than I’m just going crazy.

The wind stings as it hits my cut. I glance down at the bright-red blood trickling onto the golden wheat and I feel dizzy. Bleary-eyed, I stare out over the untilled crops waving in the wind like a churning sea.

I understand how the settlers got lost in the plains. It’d be so easy to lose your bearings out here, get separated from the herd. Once you’re isolated, the predators can pick you off.

My breath is coming in short bursts now; it feels like the wheat, the sky, and the earth are squeezing me from all sides.

Backing up to the combine, I climb into the cab and cut the engine. There’s no way it could’ve started on its own. I listen closely, but the only thing I hear is the occasional ting of the engine cooling down and the faint buzz of the train whistling through the crossing on Route 17. It’s so quiet I swear I can hear my heartbeat thrumming in the slash across my arm. I pull the first-aid kit from under the seat to find Noodle’s put heart stickers over everything. My chin quivers.

“Just keep it together, Clay,” I whisper as I rip open a packet of gauze and wrap it around my wrist. The combine’s been acting up lately. And it’s just a surface cut.

I notice my bruised knuckles and a fresh wave of guilt washes over me. No one needs to know about this. About any of it. I think about heading home, barricading myself in my room for the rest of the day, but then I think of Noodle standing there with her sticker bag. That goofy Kool-Aid-stained grin, her front two teeth missing. I can’t let her down. I can’t let the family down.

All of this could be caused by lack of sleep. I mean, even when I’m asleep, it’s a restless sleep. I keep having the weirdest dreams—Noodle whispering in my ear, telling me to work the wheat. It has to mean something. This last harvest will bring in the money we need to pay for that school over in Murpheyville. It might be too late for the rest of us, but Noodle deserves this. I’ll do whatever it takes to help her get out of here … make something of her life.