GOD HATES HEAVY METAL: HARVEST OF ASH

Harvest of Ash

Jaycen’s parents always told him that progress came at a cost. He just never thought the cost would be their lives.

The fire in the main house cast long, twisting shadows across the greenhouse as the masked men dragged him forward. The air reeked of burning plastic, blood, and gasoline. His mother’s screams had stopped. His father’s body lay somewhere in the inferno, their life's work crumbling with them.

Two men with gas cans marched toward the research lab to finish the job. Two others focused on Jaycen. One chambered a round, eager to end it quick. The other wanted something slower. Something that would make “this little liberal cuck” understand pain.

That hesitation was all he needed.

Jaycen broke free, sprinting into the greenhouse, dodging between rows of green-veined, bioluminescent stalks. “Buzby!” he screamed.

A small humanoid figure emerged from the foliage, eyes glowing red, blue synthetic skin flickering where bullets had grazed him. Buzby—his best friend, his protector—hurled thick, spiked fruit at the men. One splattered against a masked man’s chest with a sickening crunch. The man staggered back, furious, and fired. Buzby convulsed as the bullet tore through his leg, spilling amber fluid onto the dirt.

Jaycen barely saw the other man until rough hands lifted him by the throat. He clawed at the grip, gasping, as Buzby vanished into the stalks.

A scream erupted from the other side of the greenhouse. The second intruder stumbled back, his face melting beneath a cloud of insecticide. Buzby lunged, hands clamping around the man's skull. A sickening pop. His eyes burst like overripe fruit.

The last man dropped Jaycen, turned, and saw his friend’s mangled corpse.“Sweet Jesus,” he stammered, lifting his mask. His lip curled into a grimace beneath a wild patch of unkempt facial hair. “In the name of the Lord, I’ll send you back to hell, you little bastard.” He stalked forward, gun raised, tracking the trail of Buzby’s leaking juices. “Come on, you little demon cocksucker. Show yourself so I can blow your fuckin’ head off in the name of my savior, Jesus Christ.”

He smirked as he spotted Buzby, crouched under a table. He leveled the gun.

Jaycen swung the hedge trimmer.

The blade chewed through flesh, turning the man’s face into pulp. His tongue wriggled, cartoonish, as he howled in agony and fired wildly. A bullet shattered a greenhouse window. The gun dropped. He buckled to his knees.

Jaycen brought the hedge trimmer down again. And again. And again. The man’s head became a heap of ragged meat.

Jaycen dropped the trimmer, arms shaking. He walked to the door. The vertical farming facility burned, and with it, his parents' dreams of a better future turned to ash. As dawn crept over the wreckage, Jaycen collapsed beside his father’s guitar, hands trembling. He played the opening chords of Wish You Were Here, the song his dead used to play him at bed time when he was little. Tears streamed down Jaycen’s face as he realized he’d never get the chance to show him he learned to play it.

Buzby sat beside him, head tilted, broken but still listening.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Art and story by Hal Hefner.
Produced by Catmonkey Studio