The Devils Harvest: The End of All Flesh. by Glen Johnson Page A

accommodate all the water He had unleashed.

    “Everything I had – those I loved – everything was now gone. Just one insignificant Ark floating in the vastness of the new ocean, containing a mere handful of humans and an array of animals.” She lifted the baby’s jumper up and inspected it carefully.

    “It was at that time I – along with those who passed over to my side – was forbidden to take on human form again. So the world wouldn’t once again become filled with violence and our giant bastard offspring.”

    She continued to rock away. Cigarette bobbing. Ash falling. Story unfolding.
     
    “There wasn’t much fun to be had for a while, being that there was only Noah and his oh-so-fucking-godly family around. So God fearing and completely ignoring our presences. But like a virus they soon spread. The world soon starting to fill once again with imperfect man. Spreading out from a place called Babylon. Now days it’s called Iraq.

    “All people – up until that time – spoke the same language. One tongue. But as everything does that soon changed. All because of one great man called Nimrod, the great-grandson of Noah. With a little of my help I might add. A Great Warrior in opposition to God, Nimrod was aptly named.
     
    “The Tower of Babel.” She rocked forward, but this time didn’t rock back, instead she reached down for her knitting bag and stuffed her belongings into it.

    “Time to be off,” she said, the almost silence crackling laugh followed. She held the bag tight to her lap and stared hard at me.
     
    “Yes Babel, they were great days.” Long sigh. “But it can wait until tomorrow sonny.” She then gave one last vile smile and her head simply lulled to one side. Like the others she was now dead.

8
    Put the Lotion in the Basket

    T he ground outside was mushy the snow was melting fast. Faster than I thought it would. No longer was it crunching loudly under my thick rubber boots.

    I stumbled as I dragged the old lady’s body around to the back of the farmhouse. I had every outside light shining brightly. I even turned all the lights on in all the rooms hoping the light would spill outside. I lived so far away from anywhere it was so dark at night, being that there was no light pollution around.
     
    The sky was clear, no more heavy-laden clouds; instead stars shined brightly, like a billion crushed diamonds twinkling far above. But it was also making the air freezing. Patches of ice were everywhere. Once or twice I slipped almost landing on top of the old woman. With that image in my mind’s eye I made sure I was looking where I was going, moving much more carefully.

    I lay the almost round body in a neat line with the others, placing her bag beside her. I just stood there for a few moments staring down at the three other mounds and the new body resting next to them, and wondering who they really were.
     
    Strange how that question was soon to be answered.

    Then turning I headed back into the warmth. My drink was already waiting for me.
     
    I was going to go through the tape from the previous nights, but for some reason – that I can’t explain – I turned the television on instead.

    Television doesn’t appeal to me much. You sit motionless for hours, your brain registering millions of images over and over. Thousands of adverts for things you would never need, or want. Pointless programs about redecorating your home, or shoving a large group of people into a locked up house or on an island and watching how they react. Why, is all I can ask?
     
    The only channels I watch are the Discovery Channels, National Geographic and the news channels, Fox and CNN. On some rare occasions if I have writer’s block or I am feeling under the weather I might flick to HBO and see what films are showing. Now soap operas never appealed to me. Why watch a program about an imaginary group of people’s lives? Wasn’t our own life interesting enough? Busy enough?

    The first thing that gave me a