As I stand over her belly, the crucifix at the ready, I glance nervously at the horde behind me, but no one moves to stop me. They just keep smiling.
“Do it,” Ali pleads.
“God help me,” I whisper, my entire body trembling.
As I raise the crucifix over my head, ready to impale the child, something reaches inside of me, grabbing hold of my heart. My mind wants to, but my body won’t let me. “I can’t,” I cry out. “I can’t do it.”
“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.”
The priests.
“Eight will be a grave mistake.”
Sheriff Ely.
“The ninth will be for goodness’ sake.”
Miss Granger.
“The final one to fall, the tenth will be the one to bind them all.”
Ali. My sweet Ali.
* * *
NOODLE’S COUNTING song—it’s about the ten sacrifices. She made it up years ago. Is that how long she’s been one of them … preparing for this moment?
“I think I’ll call him Clay,” Noodle says as she swings around. The swoosh of her long blond hair brings me right back to that day in the fields—the day I ran over the golden calf with the combine. It was her … crouching low in the wheat. I saw blood on her hand that day, but she said it was a paper cut. She slit the calf’s throat and left it there. She whispered to me in my dreams, told me to plow the invitation into the crops … she was there before each one of them turned, before they killed themselves … at the Harvest Festival, the practice, the bonfire, the lake, the breeding barn. She drove Mom mad … pushed Jess into Lee’s arms.
Tears sear down my face.
“It’s you … you’re the chosen one,” I whisper, barely holding on to consciousness.
She turns and steps toward me, a sweet smile on her face.
“Rest easy, brother. The last harvest is finally over.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my editor Melissa Frain for going on this gruesome, bloody, and sometimes uncomfortable journey with me. She gave me the artistic freedom to explore every dark corner and brought a lot of tenderness to the story. I couldn’t be more grateful.
Seth Lerner is responsible for the gorgeous cover. Thank you.
Standing O for Amy Stapp, and everyone at Tor for embracing my weird, and making this such a joyful experience.
Special thanks to Josh Adams for making this love connection.
To my fearless agent, Jaida Temperly, and everyone at New Leaf, thank you for taking such good care of me.
I owe a huge amount of gratitude to my beta readers/friends, who gave me the encouragement I needed to tackle this story. April Tucholke, Virginia Boecker, Jasmine Warga, Rebecca Behrens, Jenn Marie Thorne, Lee Kelly, Erin Morgenstern, Bes
s Cozby, Veronica Rossi, Lauren Oberweger, Nova Ren Suma, Libba Bray, Maggie Hall, Jodi Kendall, and last but not least, my muse, Gina Carey, who inspired Noodle.
To my husband Ken, my partner, who listens to all my crazy ideas, props me up when I’m low, and cooks for me when the deadlines are looming.
To my parents John and Joyce, and my beloved sister Cristie, who answered every Oklahoma question with glee, even when she knew what the book was about.
To my daughter Maddie—thank you for all your love and support. The next book is for you.
I wrote The Last Harvest for my son Rahm—another strong, silent type. The idea for this book was sparked by one of our late night philosophical conversations. You are wise beyond your years and I’m so grateful that I get to be your mom. Keep seeking.
Finally, I’d like to thank Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, Ira Levin, and V. C. Andrews for warping my brain in the best possible way.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
At sixteen, Kim Liggett left her rural Midwestern town for New York City, where she pursued a career in music. Along with lending her voice to hundreds of studio recordings, she was a backup singer for some of the biggest rock bands in the ’80s. Kim spends her free time studying tarot and scouring Manhattan for vials of rare perfume and the perfect egg-white cocktail. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE LAST HARVEST
Copyright © 2017 by Kim Liggett
All rights reserved.
Cover art: man © Getty Images; background © Christine Goodwin/Arcangel Images
A Tor Teen Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-8098-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-7630-9 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466876309
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First Edition: January 2017