Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 26

ALEX DREAMS.

She’s ten years old, in a cornfield in Indiana, in the center of a wide circle that she made with Charles. They stomped down all of the dry stalks around them and are sitting Indian style, face-to-face, knees touching. The corn is taller than they are, so no one can see them from the road or from the farm house. This is their private spot. Their special spot. No one can hurt them here. Not bullies. Not Father. Not anyone.

A wind blows through the corn, making a rustling sound. All around them, the corn ripples like a golden sea. Alex smells fresh earth and clean air. The sun is shining, bright overhead, and she turns up to feel it on her face.

But she doesn’t feel it. All she feels is cold.

She looks at Charles, wondering if he’s cold too. His eyes are closed.

“I love you,” she says.

He doesn’t answer. She reaches up, touches him. It’s like touching ice.

He’s dead. Charles is dead.

Then his jaw falls open.

“You’re ugly, Alex,” Charles says. “Scarred and ugly.”

It’s isn’t his voice. It’s Jack’s.

Charles becomes Jack, his features cracking and twisting, and then she’s standing over Alex with angry black eyes, pointing down at her like a vengeful god.

Alex reaches up, feels her own face, feels the scars.

And she’s afraid.

The pleasant field smell sours, becoming the acrid odor of sweat and fear. The gentle breeze goes rotten. The sun shines black.

Alex runs. Into the corn.

The corn grabs at her, tries to stop her. But Alex has a knife, and she cuts and slashes, and the corn cries out and bleeds, bright red arterial jets that sting like acid. Stalks morph into severed arms and legs, and Alex climbs up the bodies of the slaughtered, climbs up an ever-growing pile of people she has killed.

At the top of the mound is a face. Her face. Unscarred. It beckons her on.

Behind her, Jack grows to monstrous proportions, reaching out an enormous hand to pluck Alex away from her goal. Alex dodges, stabs at Jack’s huge thumb, then launches herself upward, hands outstretched and yearning.

Alex’s face is atop a pedestal, and she snatches it up and presses the perfect mask of flesh against her scars. It glows warm, then burning hot, shooting out rays that blind the Jack creature and cause her to tumble down the mountain.

And Alex smiles. Not a half smile. A full smile, all the muscles working, lips doing what they are supposed to, wide and bright and beautiful.

Then Alex begins to grow. Bigger than Jack. Bigger and stronger and almighty. She crushes the squealing lieutenant underfoot, her rib cage cracking like a bird’s nest.

For miles around Alex, the corn trembles and begs for mercy.

Alex’s blade stretches and curves, becoming a scythe.

As the world screams, Alex reaps.