The cornfield was only a short walk once I’d decided that I didn’t want to risk the wrath of Dottie and I didn’t really know what else to do. As I walked down the center of the hard packed road, between two wagon wheel ruts a low growling and hissing sound became apparent over the sound of the corn rustling and the birds squawking at one another as they perched and flew among the stalks. The miniature cacophony of Mucking ripped the natural sounds of the field asunder and sent a shiver down my spine. Though I felt a sense of dread I hurried my step. The road slowly curved as it made its way roughly parallel to the river and as it did the square outline of a wagon filling the road’s break in the corn. A man rose from the back of the wagon and another broke from the corn’s shadows handed up a full sack and then disappeared again. The wagon rider stacked the sack, flung sweat from his brow with one hand and then returned to the side of the wagon. Though I could hear the thralls I could not yet see them. The people working the wagon pointed at me as I drew nearer. Once I got within a few yards of the wagon I slowed down. The thralls were lined up in front of the wagon in two rows of three. Each row bore a large wooden yoke that fit across their necks and shoulders. A long wooden handle extended from each yoke back to where a man sat at the front of the wagon. They raised the nubs of their arms to the bags that fell around their faces growling and hissing with displeasure at their inability to remove them. One of the older men, picking at his nails stood in front of the thralls not far out of arms reach. I stifled an urge to scream a warning at him as the thralls shuffled near him. As a sack of corn was slung into its place on the stack shaking the wagon, the driver whistled, and the old man trotted forward a few yards. Before he had come to a stop the driver lifted the wooden handle and the bags lifted from the thrall’s head. Immediately they caught sight of the old man who disturbingly scuffled his feet in the dirt in the imitation of a dance his face lit up with a toothless grin. The thralls surged forward jerking the wagon so hard that the driver clutched the seat beneath him with one hand to prevent himself from tumbling backwards. The wagon creaked and the wood rattled as if it was going to fall apart. The old man jigged. The thralls snarled, the skin on their faces falling off in ragged chunks. Suddenly the bags dropped over the thrall’s faces again and the driver leaned back against the wooden lever that stuck up beside his seat and immediately the sound of the wooden wheels grinding filled the air. The thralls pulled forward a few more steps, their outstretched nubs swiping the air as the old man danced backwards a couple of steps laughing. The thralls growled and strained against their yokes as if they knew that the old man was just out of their fangless reach.
Paul walked down the lane behind the old man shaking his head. “You won’t be laughing if they get you Willy,” he said not unkindly.
“They won’t get me and even if they do, what are they going to do, gnaw me?”
“You’ll be surprised.” Paul said as I walked up to the two of them. “They’ll pin you to the ground, hold you between their nubs and then who knows, they might just get lucky and nick you with a fang just regrowing. Then I’m sure you’ll piss your pants.” He looked at me. “I guess your brother finished with you.” I sputtered but he held up a hand. “I don’t need to know.” He pointed down the road behind him. “Try to get another bag filled before the wagon makes,” then he turned from me to the wagon. I trotted down the lane between the swaying stalks of corn my mind going blank as I absorbed the serenity around me.
We trudged back up the lane falling behind the corn laden wagon as the thralls pulled it along at a brisk pace, their lead-human practically sprinting ahead of them. The men were silent, tired, and red-faced from the sun, but they seemed in good spirits. They looked longingly and inhaled deeply as we passed through the cloud of aroma that emanated from the farmhouse. We stacked the sacks of corn in a barn surrounded by pasture just to the north of the village. The work went more quickly than I’d imagined with all of us forming a line and passing the heavy sacks from the wagon up into the stacks of the barn. As we finished and headed back towards the village I gazed off towards the thick growth that grew near the river where the block building that imprisoned Abdul lay as we walked up the rutted path to the barn. A couple of vampires ran off across the ridge on some errand I couldn’t imagine their motions smooth as if they had wheels rather than legs. Three of the guys headed off towards the mucking stalls, one leading the wagon and the other two riding; apparently it was their turn to delay dinner. The rest of us headed off to the farmhouse for dinner, a cheerful mood setting in as we walked through the fading dusk.
The mood soured up almost instantly as we came into sight of the farmhouse. My brother stood on the porch as if he were orating to the small cluster of new vamps that stood almost huddled beneath him. They were new vamps not only
