Chapter 7: Reaping the Harvest

The air-conditioning in the moving truck finally rebelled against the Florida weather and went on strike. Rhychard coaxed every chill blast out of it he could until only dry air coughed its way out of the vents. Even in May, Florida was too hot to go without at least a breeze, which forced him to ride with the windows down. The air was still sticky with humidity, but at least it circulated. He needed that breeze to help dry him off.

He had just finished a three-day move of office equipment for Brewster and Associates Law Firm from their old offices on Starks Avenue to their lush new paradise on Washington Street. It had definitely been a step up, too. They were now in a glass four-story on the corner of Washington and Alamo taking up most of the block with the building and parking area. They had a great view of Downtown on one side and the Indian River on the other, with plenty of fine dining and taverns nearby to schmooze the clients.

Rhychard was one of three private movers hired to assist in the transition. Now that it was finally over, sweat and grime covered him, plastering his long hair to his forehead and neck while gluing his black shirt to his back. He was sore and tired and needed a shower.

Still, it was over, and his night was truly about to begin. Rhychard slid his hand over the square box in his front pocket. Tonight, he intended to take his four-year relationship with Renny Saunders to the next level. They had avoided this step for too long, and he wanted to make Renny his wife. There was no reason not to do it. Saunders Realty was doing great, and his moving truck company had a steady flow of business. Their lives were steady and calm. An engagement was just the thing to shake it up a bit.

A mixture of night and bright balls of streetlights painted Downtown. Revelers wobbled out of one bar and staggered down the sidewalk to their next open tab. A homeless man slept on one of the hard metal benches, his body wrapped in a raincoat as he used wadded newspaper as a pillow. The party crowd ignored him as they laughed dramatically at each other's jests. They were in their finest hitting-the-town attire, a stark contrast to the rags of the homeless man. They didn't even acknowledge he was on the bench, treating him as mere scenery on their way to the next bar.

Rhychard pulled his truck to the curb. How people could just ignore someone in need, he would never understand. He opened the door to the back of his truck and pulled out two of the dark green industrial blankets he used to cover fragile items when moving them. He folded one into a tight square and gave it to the thin man as a pillow. The other he draped over the man like a blanket.

The man glanced up at him, his dark eyes reflecting his shocked acceptance as a smile pulled at his whiskered cheeks. "Thank you," he said with a voice of genuine appreciation and scratchy with years on the street.

"No worries, my friend," Rhychard said. "Sleep well." He closed the truck door and slid back behind the wheel. The people on the street were too busy with each other to even notice what had transpired. It was sad, really, but Rhychard knew it had always been like that. People were just too self-absorbed these days.

As he slipped the gears into drive, a shadow flew over his windshield. Leaning forward he peered up, but whatever it was had flown out of sight. "Must have been a helluva bird." With his foot on the gas, he headed into the night.

He didn't get far before the railroad guards started screaming their clanging warning. Whenever you're in a hurry, the Universe has a way of slowing you down. Rhychard took a deep breath, trying to calm his impatience as the railroad crossing bars cut him off from his plans for the evening. Glancing in both directions, he tried to spot the light from the ill-timed train. Yet, there was no train in sight. No light. No blasting horn. No earth-shaking rumble.

"Of all the times for a malfunction."

Another shadow passed overhead. As Rhychard glanced up, he could only stare. "What the…" A giant bat, the size of a human, flew over his head. Another creature quickly followed the first. And then another. They flew toward the back of a building lining the downtown main drag.

Rhychard threw the truck into park and stumbled out, his eyes never leaving the sky. They were everywhere. He glanced around to see if anyone else saw them, but the streets were quiet. Too quiet. Where had the partiers gone?

Reaching under the driver's seat, he pulled out the tire iron he kept there. He kept the heavy metal rod handy because, even though most people didn't want to take on a six-five man, there were always idiots who allowed bravado to overtake common sense.

He stepped in front of the truck, his fingers squeezing the solid iron in his hand. It didn't help him feel better. The skies were as deserted as the street. There was still no sign of a coming train, either. Even the wind had gone into hiding.

Get into the truck, you idiot, and get out of here. He should have taken his own advice, but his feet refused to move. His heart beat a steady cadence in his ears. Something had him.

"Aiieeee!!" The scream pierced the night and chilled Rhychard's blood. Screeches of giant birds ricocheted off the surrounding buildings, burying the second scream of agony.

He didn't think. He didn't even remember moving, but he was running for all he was worth toward the cacophony of shrill cries. It was almost as if whatever was happening pulled him toward it. He couldn't stop even if he wanted. He rounded the corner of one of those small twenty-five dollars a plate bistros, left downtown, and entered hell.