A/N: I recently discovered this story was plagiarized by other authors in this category (and you *know* who you are). While I'm still greatly disappointed in such dishonesty (and, let's face it: EXTREMELY PO'd that someone would try to rip me off!) that this has occurred, it inspired me to go back through this story and fix a few things. This is still the same general story, but I wanted to strengthen it in places where I looked back and thought, "Yeah, that seems a bit rushed," or, "I should have given a little more background to this..." This is my time to make it better.
As always, I welcome and appreciate feedback, and hope this will sound like a stronger story this time around. Thank you.
~August, 1981~
They were innocent.
They had no way of knowing what would happen that day.
As he drove, Mark Daniels spoke, but he knew that everything he said wasn't being heard. "You hearing me over there?"
"Always do," Erica stated quietly. Her attention was focused on anything but her older brother, and the tension between them was getting heavy.
"Then say something."
"I did."
"Knock it off! I'm serious." She closed her eyes, obviously hurt, and he sighed heavily. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I just don't want to think about it, so I wish you'd lay off already."
"You rely on Dad and me too much, and I just wish you would make some friends this time."
She looked at him with a steady blue gaze. "So do I."
Mark instantly felt like an ass and dropped the subject, focusing on the road ahead of him. The road trip had been meant to give them time to relax and have fun, a chance to temporarily forget about their stresses at home. The return trip, however, was lacking those traits.
Erica turned to the window once again, scanning the severely dried stalks of corn. Yellow, she thought, a vast sea waving in the gentle wind. This had been yet another terrible summer for the corn crop, thanks to the drought that had gripped Gatlin the past two years. In a town where agriculture was the very heart of their economy, it had been a devastating blow for everyone. Even her father, an experienced farmer since boyhood, had expressed worry shortly after moving here last June.
But Allan Daniels had needed another small town for them to move to. Someplace in the mid-west, someplace where farming was prevalent, someplace that could give his daughter the chance at normalcy that he desperately wanted—needed—for her. Gatlin seemed to be their answer.
It had been family friend Dave Gilman who suggested they come to the Nebraska town, though he'd failed to mention the severity of the weather they'd been having. Being one of the town's only lawyers, it wasn't an immediate concern in his mind. Over the past year, though, it was clear to both Mark and Erica that their father's worries were rapidly growing, fearing he'd be unable to provide for his family. Had this been a huge mistake? Would the drought end later this year? Next year? A decade from now? No one knew, and the notion brought the man to tears now and then.
Still, his children tried to be as supportive as possible. Mark offered to get a second job to help out; Erica pledged to get more involved in learning food storage techniques in case of poor crop yields. Anything they could do to help each other, they did. As a result, they remained a little more isolated from the rest of the community, but this was nothing new to them. In truth, Erica wouldn't have traded their company for anything else in the world.
But with all the work they did to assist him last year, Allan wanted his kids to have a chance to be just that: kids. He suggested they take a trip by themselves before school started up again, wanting to give them a break from his constant troubles. Mark had just turned eighteen and was capable of looking after his little sister. He encouraged them to go camping; explore outside the state; do something spontaneous. They'd more than earned it.
And here they were, returning to what was now home, and getting into occasional petty squabbles. Mark meant well; Erica knew it, but when he continued to press about her lack of a social life, it frustrated her. Both he and her dad knew how difficult it had been for her...well, all her life, and they hoped against hope that each time they moved to a new town, things would improve. Despite this, both remained ever-protective of her heart, and deep down, she knew they always would. There was no way she could hold a grudge against Mark for long.
She continued to stare out the window, then swallowed uneasily. She was transfixed, unable to look away, but why? Why should she suddenly care about what the corn looked like? Why did it all of a sudden make her heart drop?
Mark was talking again, but Erica interrupted. "You think Dad missed us?" It sounded rushed.
Mark smiled. "Of course he did. We've been gone for a week, and the poor guy's all alone. Why would you ask such a silly question?"
Because I think I scare him sometimes, she thought. Her voice grew soft. "I really missed him."
"I know. We're almost home, though, and we have plenty of time to catch up. I bet Clayton and Sarah are going to wet their pants when they see you."
A smile finally crept upon her face. Clayton and Sarah Gilman, Dave's children, were the twins she babysat, and her only friends. Some deemed it odd for the fourteen-year-old to befriend such young children, but it never occurred to her to mind. All three of them shared a deep connection that others couldn't understand. Aside from her father and brother, they were the only people she interacted with. They knew her; they didn't judge her, and she could trust them. Yes, she'd be happy to see her "secret children."
"Yeah, it'll be good to see them again," she said honestly. "I have a lot of games of Monopoly to make up with them."
Mark laughed. "Oh God, a game that never seems to end! You're all nuts, but I'm sure you know that."
They passed a familiar road sign: GATLIN, 2 MILES.
Her hands suddenly went cold, her smile slowly fading as something descended upon her. Oh no…She twisted her frigid fingers together, trying to shake it off. No such luck.
Mark gave her a suspicious sideways glance and licked his lips. "You're too quiet. You've been quiet most of the way." Simply stated, but dead serious.
Erica hesitated.
An uneasiness he couldn't shake began to take over. "You have a feeling, don't you?"
She tore her eyes from the dying corn. An ill sensation in the pit of her stomach had been growing, building on top of itself for hours; she could do nothing to stop it. "Just…" How could she put this?
Mark was listening intently.
"Mark, something's wrong." She felt so stupid. Why couldn't she come up with a better adjective?
But he nodded encouragingly. "How long has this lasted?"
GATLIN, 1 MILE.
Her throat was closing up, trying to prevent her voice from escaping. "I had a small twinge this morning, but I really thought it was just a stomachache. But it's been getting worse all day, and I don't know why…I just don't know…"
"Hey, relax, you're okay," he reached over and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Maybe we'll go to Hansen's later, get you a shake and talk about this. We've figured out your feelings before, right?"
She was grateful to have such a supportive sibling, but deep down she knew he was as frightened as she was. They knew perfectly well that no amount of milkshakes would solve this problem. Still, she took a deep breath for his sake, hoping she really was okay.
At first, they saw no one as they entered town, which was typical. They passed a few farms, complete with quaint houses and barns, chickens, cattle, horses, and even more pathetic corn. Rows and rows of tall, suffering vegetation begging for relief. It reached out to Erica, reminding her of starving villagers yearning for food from their dictator. Wanting, needing…alive. It beckoned her, pleaded for her…and screamed inside her head.
Sacrifice…
She snapped her eyes shut, hoping it would pass before it drove her mad. I don't understand, she thought, I don't understand. What does it mean?
Further and further they journeyed into the small town, and still nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Sacrifice…
Now Erica felt cold everywhere; something was very, very wrong. "Mark."
"We're almost home."
"I think I'm going to be sick."
"You're okay," he gave a gentle squeeze, "trust me. If there really is anything to worry about, then we'll take care of—"
As they crested a small hill, Mark slammed the brakes and they came to a screeching halt, flinging Erica forward and nearly crushing her chest against the seat belt. Both were frozen in shock as they stared ahead at the body lying in the street. Mark's face visibly drained of all color. Erica needed to scream, felt it catch at the base of her throat, but couldn't push it any further. Instead, she continued to stare at the sight in horror. Body. Dead body. The body of a man, face down, drowning in a pool of dark blood. He had a large, ghastly wound in his backside, as if he had been torn open. Buried in the wound was a sickle, and the sickle was in the hands of a boy. A thin child with short brown hair, and Erica thought he couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. The boy stood slowly and was looking directly at them, his face a mask of surprise at the sight of the car and its occupants. Erica recognized him: Brian Meyers. He worked in the town's hardware store with his father. The feeling inside of her was no longer warning her; it was shrieking Get the hell out of here!
Brian tore the sickle out of the man's back and pointed it toward them. "Outlanders!" He yelled.
"DRIVEMARKDRIVE!" Erica finally screamed in one word.
Mark needed no further prompting and hit the gas pedal. Brian was running after them, waving his reddened weapon madly, but was soon left far behind them.
"Holy shit! That was Brian! He killed Mr. O'Hara! Was that what you were feeling today?"
"I don't know," she whimpered pathetically. She thought by now the feeling would have at least subsided a bit, but it only grew stronger. "Jesus, we have to get out of here. Now."
"Are you sure?"
She shot him an exasperated look.
"Of course you are." Despite what he'd just seen, he knew he needed to keep himself in control, keep himself capable of rational thought. However, his shaking voice and quivering lip made it impossible to disguise his fear. "Alright, we'll go to Officer Hodgekiss as soon as we get into town. He'll take care of this—"
She shook her head. "No."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles going white. "No?"
"No. He can't help us," she exhaled. How she knew this, she had no idea. "We have to go. I don't know why, but we have to. Please trust me on this!" Tears blinded her and fell in hot lines down her cheeks.
Mark's lower lip kept quivering. "I always trust you."
Erica gasped suddenly. "Dad!"
"We're going to get him first; then we'll go far away from here, okay? We'll make it out of here."
Within a minute, they were in the center of town, and Mark hit the brakes again. They couldn't believe what they were seeing! This time, Erica released a strangled cry as she saw a scene straight out of a horror movie. There were more bloody corpses in the street and on the sidewalks. Others who were still alive ran frantically as they were chased by individuals wielding axes, knives, and other items that had become simple weapons. Another teenage boy ran down a woman—Ms. Pax, Erica's social studies teacher—and plunged a screwdriver straight into her abdomen.
"Oh my God!" Erica and Mark screamed simultaneously.
He stabbed her again. And again. Kept it up while she made sounds akin to a dying animal, until she finally became nothing more than a still, bloodied mass in the street.
"Oh, God, Erica, close your eyes," Mark ordered, "don't look at this!"
Too late. She would never get that image out of her mind.
To her immediate right, she saw a face press against a storefront window, then the blade of a knife snake across the victim's throat; dark red blood spurted instantly onto the glass.
Erica clapped a hand over her mouth and tried hard not to vomit. Several yards away, two tall girls overpowered an elderly man by restraining him against the wall of a brick building, while another boy slammed a sickle into his wide open chest. Even a child who appeared no older than ten assisted by crouching on the ground and tripping unsuspecting adults as they ran for safety, leaving them to the mercy of the oncoming slaughter.
"What the fuck is going on here?" Mark meant to scream in rage, but Erica detected a hint of hysteria. "Where in God's name is Officer Hodgekiss? How could he be letting this happen?"
But there was no sign of the town's only constable. Erica's head was spinning as she took all of this in, frantic thoughts causing her heartbeat to accelerate. Murder…it's murder! She screamed to herself. They've committed murder here! Right out in the open! Not just Brian; most of them were students she'd seen in the halls of school, while many others she'd perhaps seen around town. Students...students…They're only kids! Why? Why would they do this? What had driven them to commit such atrocities? So much blood…
And then she heard Mark cry out, "Sean!" as he saw his best friend from school strike his own father over the head with a hammer. A deep, ghastly indentation was left in the man's skull. Erica nearly vomited again.
"Mr. Parker!" Mark nearly screeched. Erica heard him put the car in park and roll down the window to yell out, "Sean! What the hell are you doing, Sean? What the hell? That was your father! You killed him! Are you out of your God-damned mind?"
Sean Parker looked up at him with a dark expression, the intensity of his gaze causing Erica to swallow thickly. Through the windshield, she saw his lips move, but was unable to decipher his words.
By the way Mark stiffened, though, it was clear he had said something troubling. "I—What?"
Erica's breathing became labored. The feeling only continued to get worse.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark fired back at something Sean had said.
Things seemed to be happening in slow motion. From her seat, Erica could only watch as others continued to kill. She saw other classmates from school: Laura, Dylan, Tim, and others she didn't recognize. They smiled, laughed, and looked as sweet as children could as they ran down their victims. It was as though she could feel something pierce her heart every time she watched someone die. She wished Mark would just forget about Sean and drive already! A few younger children began to take notice of their car, seeming to exchange a few words and draw nearer. Her eyes darted to the familiar ones, the children of families who lived down the road from them. Travis Madderax had a kitchen knife; Clare Underwood had an ice-pick; both had blood on their clothes. Her breath caught in her throat. They're so young…
As their heads tiled in curiosity, trying to see who else was hiding inside the vehicle, Erica shrank back in her seat, trying to remain invisible. No. These are…these are kids…
Sacrifice…
It can't be...
And then she realized Mark had ducked back in the car, Rolling up his window and locking all the doors. She stared at him, realizing his face had turned a slight shade of green. "You're right: we have to get out of here."
It took her several tries to heave enough oxygen into her lungs to squeak, "Mark…?"
"H-he asked if have I'd been saved," he hesitated a moment, "or if I'm an 'unbeliever.'"
Her eyes widened. That word didn't make sense, but the religious implication behind it made her heart drop nonetheless.
Sean was approaching their car with absolute intent in his eyes.
"Erica," Mark's voice was low and intense, something that occurred whenever he felt increasingly protective of her. "Hold on."
Not a request. Automatically, Erica's hand wrapped around the interior door handle. Slamming on the gas pedal, Mark sped off, barely missing a startled Sean by a few inches. As they passed, there was the loud clang of a hammer slamming down on their trunk.
She now grasped the handle for dear life, her stomach flying back with the momentum of the moving vehicle. In his haste, Mark ended up driving over one of the bodies in the street.
"Sorry; sorry," he apologized as they bounced over the corpse, his shoulders heaving with the need to retch.
No matter where Erica's eyes darted, there was more death; more butchered bodies around the town; all fatally wounded, and those who were not quite dead were left bleeding their lives out… All adults, Erica's mind whispered. Part of her wished to keep denying it, but she knew it was true: the children had killed them all!
Apparently Mark had reached the same conclusion. "The kids! The kids did all this? What the hell has gotten into all of them?" His voice sounded so far away to her. She was falling slowly into a strange, frightening abyss, and there seemed to be no end to it. She broke out in a cold, cold sweat and shivered. "Erica? Hey, you listen to me. Hey, look at me, Erica. Look at me: we're going to get Dad and get far away from here," he repeated his earlier words, but so much fear was etched into them. "You hear me? Answer me, damn it!"
She could only manage a weak nod.
Mark roughly wiped tears from his own eyes and maneuvered the car around more bodies. They said nothing for a short time, for they were both worried about their father. They had to get to him first. Children pointed at Mark's Pontiac as they went by, shouting "Outlanders!" or "Unbelievers!" to one another. What did it mean? So young…they were all so young…
Hansen's Café was one of the shops lining the main road, and to her dismay, Erica saw more dead through the shop windows as they passed. It was one of the few places she frequented with her family and the Gilmans, and she worried about where her father, Clayton, and Sarah could possibly be.
She gasped at the thought. Oh God, please don't let them be dead!
And when she caught a glimpse of a young boy just outside Hansen's, the blood in her veins froze. All she had seen was a small figure dressed in black—and from a distance, she could tell he was smiling, pleased—before they drove past and he disappeared from her line of vision.
Minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of their house. After struggling with to open the door with numb hands, Mark was already there, helping to haul her out of the car. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, the siblings dashed to their front door. Some underlying sense of survival reminded them that killers were just down the road, and their deaths were imminent if they didn't leave soon. To Mark's relief, the door was still locked, and he shoved in his key.
"Dad!" He bellowed upon entering. "Dad! We have to go! Dad?" He checked the kitchen. "Erica says we need to get out of here, now! Dad?"
While he went to checked the cellar, Erica sprinted up the stairs; he could have been taking a nap. Yes, that's all he's doing, she tried to assure herself. After heaving a few breaths, she managed to call out, "Dad?" No response. Her heart pounded so fiercely that she needed to steady herself. Leaning against the wall, she tried to relax, attempted to calm her breathing. It wasn't working.
Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice…
It was like a horrible incantation tattooed in her mind.
Sacrificesacrificesacrificesacrifice…
His bedroom door was open, and when she entered she couldn't scream because of something like heart failure.
Oh God...NO!
On the floor lay the body of Allan Daniels, mutilated and bleeding, a hatchet sunk deep into his skull. His skin had turned a pale blue, his gray eyes open and clouded over. Covering his body were dried corn leaves, which gave off a faint, ironically sweet odor amidst the murder scene. Erica backed up against a wall and slid to the floor.
He's dead! Oh God, he's dead! No, Dad, no! No, no, no, no, no!
On the opposite wall, a message had been scrawled in her father's blood: NO ROOM FOR THE DEFILER OF THE CORN. Though unspoken, the words rang eerily in her ears, and she wept with what little energy she had left.
The next thing she knew, Mark was there, his arms wrapped around her. He, too, had discovered their father, and was crying with Erica. He said something to unsuccessfully calm her and left the room to find a phone.
Biting back a sob, Erica stiffly crawled to her father's corpse and laid a shaky hand on him. On closer inspection, she could see a wad of corn silk was shoved in his mouth, and another sob escaped her throat. Come back, Dad, she thought, come back...She hanged her head as hot pains of guilt stabbed her chest. I could have warned you; I could have called you this morning to say something was wrong. I should have warned you! Why didn't I warn you? She didn't care about holding back the sobs anymore. Though she wanted to pull him close to her, his blood was everywhere, and she couldn't bring herself to do it, couldn't look at his face with the hatchet still lodged in it. Instead, her shoulders drooped as she continued to cry over him. The man who raised her, provided for her, loved her beyond the shadow of a doubt, made her feel accepted...Gone. Ripped away forever.
He would have been miles from here if I'd called this morning and told him something was wrong! Dad, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…
After a couple of failed attempts, she managed to pull off his wedding ring. Gazing at the bloody circlet in her palm, she couldn't fathom why this had happened to him, to any of the adults in town. I could have warned him, she continued to think woefully, clenching her fist around the ring.
"Phones are dead," Mark had returned, looking as if he would be sick at any given moment. "Leaving now." He was too horrified to form complete sentences as he reached for her. Erica shrank away, unable to part with her father yet. "We have to go, Erica."
No! We can't leave him here! Don't make me leave him here! Not here!
"Erica. If we don't go now, we may be next."
It took some time, but the words finally sank in. He was right; the feeling still stirred madly within her, clearly indicating this was not over. They had to go, and she let him haul her up by the shoulders. As he pulled her along, her eyes remained on their father until they left the room. Her last memory of him was his broken, red form.
She was numb everywhere and felt only hot tears in her eyes as she stumbled along with her brother. Down the hall, clumsily down the stairs, his hand grasping hers firmly, not willing to let go. They had to leave. They had to go. They had to escape—
When they reached the front door, they froze. Someone stood in the archway to the living room, and Erica nearly blacked out from fear. The boy was tall, red-haired, and had a very unpleasant face; his looks only complemented the large hunting knife that was unsheathed…and covered in what Erica wished was cherry syrup.
Mark, however, stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "You," he sneered.
The boy only smiled. Quite a hideous smile at that.
"Erica," Mark shoved his keys in her blood-smeared hand, "go."
She gaped at him. The words didn't register completely…or maybe she just couldn't do it.
"I made a promise long ago," he went on, his voice far too calm all of a sudden, "to always protect you, so you had better listen. Now go!"
This can't be happening, she shook her head. Was he trying to say goodbye?
Then, without warning, he roughly shoved her towards the door. "Go! Run, God damn it! Run!"
With a final shove, she bolted out the door and leaped into the driver's seat of the car. Her hands were shaking horribly as she turned the key in the ignition, frightened sounds escaping her throat. She couldn't do this! She didn't know how to drive! At best she'd only watched Mark and her dad, but to do so herself? Impossible! But none of it mattered; she had to escape, unless she wanted to end up bathed in her own blood like everyone else. The thought inspired her act fast as she started the engine. She didn't even bother backing out and drove over the front lawn, grunting as she plopped onto the road and sped off towards the center of town. Her shoulders heaved as she breathed, emotions rising like mercury in a thermometer. She had to get to Hemmingford. It was the closest town to Gatlin. Nineteen miles. You've ridden there with Dad and Mark before; you know how to get there! Tears were pouring down her cheeks, partially from fear, partially from sorrow. How was Mark going to fight against that boy?
Mark...Oh God! She thought with a jolt. I just left my brother behind! What is wrong with me?
She hit the brakes as hard as she could, but to her horror, she did not stop. She gasped, tried over and over again, and still the car flew down the street.
"Oh my God!"
She swerved on the road uncontrollably and panicked. Mark, Dad, Mr. O'Hara, Clayton, Sarah…The image of blood entered her head one more time, and she screamed as she crashed into a tree.