With the concussion she had sustained, Erica should have been in a coma for the next few weeks. But four days later, she awoke as if from a deep sleep. The only discomfort she felt was a dull throb at the base of her skull. Her eyes opened, and at first her surroundings confused her: a bedroom, not hers. Not her quilt, not her pillow, not her not her window on the far wall…not her home. She turned over slowly, her heartbeat accelerating.
"Maaaaaaaark…?" Her first spoken word in several days, and her throat felt as dry as a desert. Turning over, her mind registered a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. Before she knew it, she held an empty glass in her hand after downing its contents, shoulders heaving as her mind slowly pieced things together. Had it all been a dream? A wild figment of her imagination?
Then fragmented images began to emerge. Children…shattered glass…darkness…
She bolted upright with a start. No; the feeling was still with her, warning her, frightening her. There had been no horrid nightmare. Real. All real. She should be dead. Her heart leapt into her throat, and she tried hard to swallow it down. "Oh God," she whispered as her head began to spin. "God…" Rolling out of bed, she sprawled on the floor, letting the glass roll away as she stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.
Mark. Where was Mark? Then she remembered the scene at her house, where they found their father...and the boy Mark confronted in their living room, the one with the large knife…
What had become of him after pushing her out the door? She gave a shuddering breath. Mark might be dead. Dad was dead. Everyone in Gatlin was dead.
Everyone except the children.
But why? What had possessed them to commit such unspeakable acts?
She felt tears sting her eyes as the image of her murdered father remained in her mind, her heart burning fiercely with the pain of loss. His blood and the metallic scent of it mixing with the smell of sweet corn leaves; the hatchet buried in his head; the bloody message written on the wall. So vivid, as if she was still there...
She felt an urge to throw up. Get out, she thought, and somehow managed to push herself up, tripping on her long skirt…her skirt? She gasped as she looked down. These were not her clothes. She had been dressed in a very plain gray dress, which was odd compared to what she normally wore. It was snug and the sleeves were too short, but still covered most of her body. "Huh?" What in God's name was going on? Who had dressed her like this and why? Her shoes were gone; in their place was a pair of old black boots.
This…is…beyond…creepy.
What happened next was enough to make her jump out of her skin. As if an invisible hand guided her face, she looked above the doorway. Mounted on the wall was a large, hideous crucifix, fashioned out of dried corncobs and leaves. It looked so primitive and abstract, and she felt herself shrinking as she stared, petrified by its presence. It was looking down on her, watching her intently, drawing her to it…
Sacrifice…
"No!" As she stood, the dizziness worsened. Trying to keep her balance, she stumbled from the room, through strange hallways, and somehow made it out the front door. She tripped over the boots that were too large for her feet, fell to the lawn and vomited. Bile burned up her throat, accompanied by blinding tears of pain blinded her. How long have I been out? She wondered, wiping her mouth with her sleeve Where in the world was she? Behind her, the small gray house stood quietly, the paint peeling everywhere, seemingly uninterrupted by the happenings in Gatlin. She squinted, trying to clear her mind. I know this place: the Wells' house. Jim and Regina. She knew they had a daughter named Roberta. Did her parents suffer the same fate as all the other adults?
She knew the answer was yes.
Across the street, she saw the sea of yellow corn waving lazily to her. For some reason, it still triggered a sensation of intense fear deep inside her soul. Her heart hammered in her chest, blood pounding hot in her ears. Something strange was roaring within her head, filling her until she thought she'd explode.
Spill the blood...
She clamped her hands over her ears.
Come to Me...
Stop it! Stop it! Leave me alone!
She nearly had a heart attack when a hand softly touched her shoulder. Releasing a wild cry, she jumped to her feet, poised to defend herself. A tall girl, probably around eighteen, looked rather surprised at Erica's sudden outburst. Thankfully, she did not seem to be holding a weapon.
"You're awake," she calmly stated, offering a hand. "You ran out of the house before I could say anything-"
"Stay away from me!"
"I won't hurt you, I swear."
"Bullshit."
"Please! I swear."
Erica had a hard time gaining control of her breathing. "Roberta," she finally sputtered out.
The girl looked at her strangely. "My name is Mary Wells."
Stunned, Erica shook her head. "Your name is Roberta Wells! I know your name is Roberta! Why are you lying to me?"
"My name is Mary," she repeated firmly. "It is a name worthy of Him."
"Him? Who the hell is 'Him'?"
"He Who Walks Behind the Rows."
Erica gaped at her. Why did that moniker cause a finger of ice to run up her spine? "Who?"
"He Who Walks Behind the Rows. He is the Lord, and we must all obey Him."
She really didn't like where this was going. "What the hell are...are you talking...?" It came out weakly, but then she gathered enough strength to accuse, "You...killed your parents."
Mary's brown eyes became marbles of ice. "They were Unbelievers." It was all she said.
The warning inside her intensified. Still gaping, Erica began stepping backwards.
Mary followed. "Stop."
"No."
"Isaac will want to see you at once. You must come with me."
"No!" She ran down the road, parallel to the large cornfield, wishing to be as far away from Gatlin as possible. She couldn't stop the questions from invading her mind even if she tried. What happened to Roberta? Why did she change her name to Mary? Who was Isaac? Who was this deity she spoke of-He Who Walks Behind the Rows-and why did the name send a cold knife of pain through her heart? She ran as fast as she could, her legs feeling heavier with each stride. This was the main road again, and there was no doubt in her mind: she had to get to Hemmingford. She didn't have any other choice. Yes, there she could find persons of authority, other adults, there she would be safe...
Dead ahead, several children were in the street, seemingly on patrol. Her feet rooted to the spot and she choked on a scream. They were armed with the same weapons that had killed their parents. A wild urge to call out, "What have you done with Clayton and Sarah Gilman?" was suppressed.
Wait, was that the red-haired boy from her house?
"Malachi, she's awake!" One child spotted her.
"Seize her!"
A group of them charged. Snapping out of her terrified trance, Erica made a hasty decision and dove into the neighboring cornfield. Almost immediately, she was consumed by an overwhelming sense of fear and froze.
SACRIFICE!
She was on the verge of hyperventilating.
COME TO ME!
The feeling...the intense, suffocating feeling had wrapped itself around her. Something was here; this had been a terrible mistake. "God help me, please," she sobbed.
"Do not let her escape!"
"After her! Go!"
"Get her, you guys. Go on, get her!"
Imagining her blood staining those knives and sickles if she didn't move, she forced the feeling aside and pushed on.
"Go that way, Dylan, I've got this row," she heard somewhere behind her.
Got to get out, got to move. Further and further she plunged into the vast rows of corn, dodging into other rows, leading the children on wild chase. Dry leaves slapped her face. She didn't care.
"Search everywhere! She won't get far."
The maze of cornstalks seemed to just go on and on. She knew this was a farm town, but it had never occurred to her just how far these fields really went. How many farm borders had she crossed out here? Whose field was she in now? She felt like she had run for miles, occasionally pausing to catch her breath. At times, she thought her heart would burst within her chest.
"You cannot run forever, Unbeliever!"
If their voices neared, she took off again, weaving in and out of rows, ducking to remain hidden. Run, she told herself. Just run. Keep running, don't ever stop.
Got to get out, got to get away from this place, got to get out...
After an eternity of running, the shouts and calls became distant, fainter, seeking the fleeing girl in all the wrong places.
"Do you see her?"
"No; check down that way."
"There's nothing there!"
"Well, then, try another few rows down..."
"Where are you, girl? You can't hide forever!"
As their words continued to fade, Erica slowed to a stop between two flanking rows of corn, needing to give her raging pulse and sore legs a chance to rest. She fell to her knees upon the hard, dusty ground and, panting heavily, let go. Began to cry. Not loud sobbing, but a hard, wrenching cry made worse by the tightness of her lungs. She couldn't help but think of those who'd died. Dad. Mr. O'Hara. Streets littered with corpses of school teachers, farmers, and the elderly, some faces she knew, many she didn't. She mourned them all.
I'm going to die here, came the woeful thought. They're going to hunt me until I'm caught. I can't escape, and I'm going to die...
"Do you see anything?"
"No, not here."
She gulped in a breath of air. The voices were growing close again. No, part of her said, you cannot die like this. You have to get out! And with that, she pushed herself up and forced her aching legs onward. A fighting chance; she had to at least give herself that.
Straight ahead, the field at the end of this row appeared to finally end, and with a relieved sound, she dashed towards it as fast as she could. But with a start, she realized something and skidded to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust in the process. Characteristic of her today, she heaved great breaths as she scanned her surroundings carefully. What she realized was that she wasn't navigating this field on her own. How had she not become completely lost in this labyrinth of vegetation? As she quieted down and her breathing eased, she listened, but heard nothing. No wind. No bugs. What? There were no insects in this field! How was that possible? Normally, the cornfields were loaded with buzzing flies, gnats, and ants every year. Where were they now?
The lack of answers was beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. Where was she? How deep had she journeyed? How had she known which directions to take?
The corn had been leading her the entire time.
It...wanted me to come here.
She was suddenly hit by a fierce dizziness that sent her reeling, and she brought her hands to her head. Extreme nausea overtook her senses and she moaned loudly. "Oh, God." Stumbling forward through the row, she finally tripped and fell to the dry earth. She had made it to the end of the field. Breathe, breathe, relax...you made it, she thought, letting her head rest on the ground.
But immediately, she knew something wasn't right. The earth wasn't dry here: it was dark, felt rather rich, actually. Perfectly fertile. Impossible! The drought had ruined the soil for the summer, right? Dad said it couldn't be saved this year. So what was going on to make this happen? Her eyes rested on a strange root next to her face. She studied it, noticing how it had sunk into the ground a bit, how parts of it appeared acutely rotted, and how it was attached to a large plant—
Then she released a blood-curdling scream and shot herself away. It was not a root; it was a hand. A decaying human hand! The skin had turned a sickly pale shade, the veins blue and very prominent underneath, the smell of festering flesh overwhelming. The plant it was attached to was an arm, attached to an entire body...a man laying face down in the dirt, clearly dead. To her horror, there was another body in front of him...and behind...all laying neatly in the same fashion. There was an entire field of corpses lined up head to foot. Lined up like rows of corn. The ground was sucking nutrients from the bodies of the adults.
SPILL THE BLOOD!
She scooted away, got up to run again. She was gradually losing all feeling in her limbs, tears blinding her eyes.
COME TO ME!
She was running, but she thought she was falling. In the back of her mind, a distant whisper calmly asked questions. Why has this happened? Why did they do this? Why don't they feel regret? Are they going to kill me too? All of it was closing in on her.
She suddenly spilled into a tiny clearing and screamed again, louder. The sight before her caused her to fall back on her rear. A body was hanging on an enormous cross made of cornstalks, his ankles and wrists bound with barbed wire. He had several wounds in his chest, old blood staining his black uniform. The children had crucified the minister of the Grace Baptist Church.
Jesus Christ. Literally.
Unable to take anymore, she fell over, shaking, numb. Voices were still echoing painfully in her mind.
SPILL THE BLOOD!
"God no..."
Sacrifice.
No more. No more.
She broke down and cried, not hearing the yells that gradually came closer. She just cried. She didn't see the children come into view, cheering in triumph at their discovery of the runaway girl. Nor did she feel herself being turned over, or the large hunting knife that was pressed to her throat. She didn't care anymore.
The sturdy arms of an older boy scooped her up, carrying her weeping form further on through the cornfield. The others followed quietly, pleased with the outcome of their pursuit. All Erica thought about were the ones that had mattered to her.
Mark, Dad, Clayton, Sarah.
I'm sorry.