Reaping The Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 3)

by Michael R. Hicks

  From LRU, he had made his way north toward the airport, avoiding the larger groups of non-sentients and the areas most heavily infested with larvae. His objective was the airport and the humans Carl Richards had sent there. None would be allowed to escape.

  At last, he reached the grandly named Platte River, which was little more than a canal bounding the airport’s southern and western sides. He crossed a bridge to the airport side, then ran east through the trees along the bank of the river.

  He had nearly given up on finding a covered approach to the airport buildings when he came upon a small tributary just before the river passed under I-80. The tributary led him straight into the heart of the military portion of the airport. On the left side of the drainage culvert through which he made his way, dodging more and more larvae, was an Army garrison, judging by the number of destroyed vehicles. Many dead soldiers and far more dead harvesters were strewn about, a feast for the larvae.

  On his right was the Air Force facility. The wreck of a plane smoldered on the huge expanse of concrete, a tremendous pall of smoke trailing into the sky.

  My kin may have already completed my work for me, he thought as he surveyed the scene. But he was not one to leave things to chance.

  Moving carefully along the side of a building at the south end of the facility, he spied the wreckage of a second plane inside an enormous hangar. Seeing no signs of movement other than more larvae, he dashed across the concrete to the burned out hangar and crept along the wall, moving north.

  A second, smaller hangar stood across more concrete to the north. Seeing no humans about, he sprinted across the gap.

  Turning the corner of the hangar, he stopped. A Humvee, mere yards away, lay burning. The humans from the lab probably came here in this, he thought as he crept closer. Peering into the smoking hulk of the vehicle, he found no trace of human bodies.

  Moving to the northern end of the hangar, he saw another large jet sitting by itself on an apron about a thousand feet to the north.

  Humans were guarding it. Lowering himself to the ground, he watched. Four humans that he recognized as the FBI agents brought by the one called Boisson stood at the compass points, watching for threats.

  After a few minutes, two more humans emerged from the nose door of the aircraft. One of them was easily recognizable as Boisson. The other, also female, was unfamiliar to him and wore an Air Force uniform.

  Boisson called the other agents together for a moment to speak with them. Then, when finished, she, the second female, and one of the agents turned and began jogging across the ground to the north, following the fence line that separated the airport’s runways and operations areas from the passenger terminal and public access zones that ran behind the big plane.

  One of the three remaining agents closed the hatch before they all took up positions near the plane’s landing gear, then began to slowly walk forward.

  Vijay could not understand what they were doing until one of them took out a small can. Leaning over, he aimed it at the ground and held something just in front of it. A cone of fire burst forth, and what must have been a larvae exploded into bright flames.

  At the same moment, one of the plane’s engines began to start, the low growl quickly becoming a high-pitched whine.

  They are clearing the way for the plane. But why would they have sent Boisson and the others away?

  That, he did not know. What he did know was that his chances of successfully attacking the three agents and inflicting irreparable damage on the plane were poor. There was nothing but open ground for nearly a thousand feet between him and his prey, and the FBI agents, while focusing on the runway, remained vigilant to nearby threats. All three periodically looked up and around, checking the approaches to the plane.

  Vijay would never make it before they cut him down.

  Boisson, then, he thought. She and the others would not have left the plane unless their mission had been of great urgency. If they were killed and their mission failed, it might be enough to doom the other humans to staying in this place long enough for the swarms to arrive.

  He could not follow Boisson directly, for that would take him over the same open terrain between him and the aircraft, where he would risk being seen. But the fence line they were following bent to the right, looping around the northern end of the passenger terminal.

  Making his decision, he scuttled across the concrete to the parking lot east of the hangar where he’d been making his observations. Then, keeping low, he made his way to a section of fence that he could climb without the agents being able to spot him.

  Once on the other side, he ran across the street south of the main parking lot to a large warehouse-like building. From there, he vaulted over another section of fence into the civilian part of the airport.

  Looking around, he could see nothing that would be of value to the humans. The main passenger terminal was empty of aircraft and vehicles. Only luggage carts and a few other odd items of ground support equipment remained.

  To the northeast, across the airport’s secondary runway, was a collection of hangars and other buildings, in front of which stood a handful of corporate jets and some even smaller planes.

  He also spotted something else: three fuel trucks, parked in a neat row in front of one of the hangars.

  Of course, he thought. The fuel.

  Leaving caution behind, he sprinted across the intervening ground to reach the building behind the fuel trucks before Boisson and the others had a chance to spot him.

  GO FASTER

  “God, I thought I was in better shape,” Kurnow panted as she jogged along behind Boisson, with the other agent bringing up the rear.

  “Running from harvesters is great cardio,” Boisson told her. “And we’ve had lots of practice.”

  “Have you killed a lot of them?”

  Boisson grinned. “Not nearly as many as I’d like.”

  “The only ones I’ve seen for real were the ones that came poking around at night.” She paused to draw in some air. “Even then, I couldn’t see them very well. I just knew what they were.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. I hope you never have to see any up close and personal.”

  They fell silent as they crossed the passenger terminal apron, which, aside from the four jetways extending from the terminal building, was completely empty. Then they crossed the bare ground between the apron and runway 32, and the taxiway that led to the general aviation terminal.

  “Ferris and his damned crows,” Boisson growled. “This isn’t half a mile, seems more like ten miles.”

  “Better than trying to climb over the barb wire fence,” Kurnow huffed.

  “If you say so.” Boisson pointed. “Are those our trucks?”

  “Yeah. God, yeah.”

  The taxiway led directly to where three fuel trucks were parked between yellow cross-hatched rectangles painted on the apron. Half a dozen corporate jets were still parked outside the hangars and service buildings that lined the apron, with a handful of prop planes farther to the north.

  Boisson took a closer look. “Well, if we strike out here, it looks like some more trucks are up there.”

  “Let’s hope these’ll do,” Kurnow said. They slowed to a fast walk as they reached the trucks. “This so gives me the creeps. It’s just like everyone suddenly died. You’d think people would have tried to fly out of here.”

  “I’m sure some did. But most probably got caught somewhere in town. A harvester infestation doesn’t develop gradually. It starts with a few, but the next thing you know, thousands are swarming all over the place.”

  “God,” Kurnow whispered.

  Boisson snorted. “God’s got nothing to do with this. So what’s the story on these trucks?”

  “This one’s carrying avgas,” Kurnow said, looking at some of the markings and the control console. “We can’t use it.” She hurried to the next truck. “This is it! Jet-A. It’s not military grade fuel, but it should work, and the tank looks like it’s nearly
full.”

  “It had better work. It’s all we’ve got.” Boisson took a close look around the vehicle. “Best of all, I don’t see any larvae sticking to it.”

  Kurnow opened the driver’s door. “No keys. They must be in the FBO office.”

  “FBO?”

  “The fixed base operator. They own the trucks and service the planes that come here.” Kurnow pointed to the building next to the trucks. “Come on.”

  “Angie,” the other agent, Mason Juilliard, called out as he raised his rifle to his shoulder. “We’ve got company.”

  A small group of harvesters were coming toward them, bounding from open ground onto the concrete at the southern edge of the apron.

  “Shit,” Boisson cursed. “Kurnow, go find the keys! We’ll take care of our visitors.”

  Kurnow paused, staring at her.

  Boisson shoved her in the direction of the FBO office. “Go!”

  ***

  Kurnow ran for the office door as Boisson and Juilliard opened fire. Glancing toward the harvesters, she saw them leap and dodge through the tracer fire, using the corporate jets for cover as they came closer.

  She ran faster, slamming into the door when she lost her grip on the handle and it failed to open. For a moment, she thought it was locked. Grabbing it firmly with her shaking hand, the handle turned easily and the door opened.

  Stepping through, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, safe in the darkness, her heart hammering in her chest. Her heartbeat sounded even louder than the gunfire coming from outside.

  Come on, she told herself. You can’t waste time.

  Making her way behind the main counter, she found a key box fastened to the wall. It had been left open. Glancing at the desk, she saw a box of donuts, half of which hadn’t been eaten, and a half-full (or half-empty) cup of coffee. The coffeemaker had a full pot. It was off, as power to the airport had been cut off, but the switch was still on. Whoever had been here had simply left. They’d gone in such a hurry that no one had bothered to close up or shut anything off.

  She returned her attention to the key box. The keys were labeled, but she wasn’t sure which one went to the truck with the Jet-A. With a shrug, she took them all and stuffed them into one of the cargo pockets of her flight suit.

  That’s when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and a trickle of electric current ran down her arms to her fingertips.

  With her breath catching in her throat, she turned around to find a dark shape crouching on the counter behind her.

  She brought up the Desert Eagle Ferris had given her, but it was too late. Far too late.

  ***

  “Damn it! Out!” Boisson dropped the empty magazine from her weapon and slammed in a fresh one. She only had two more. “These damn things are getting smarter.”

  Between them, she and Juilliard had only taken down two of the eight harvesters that had found them. Of the six that remained, two were playing hide and seek behind the corporate jets on the southern end of the apron, while the other four had disappeared to Boisson’s left around the back of the FBO buildings, no doubt hoping to flank them.

  “Kurnow!” She shouted. “Hurry the fuck up!”

  One of the two harvesters by the jets was transformed into a torch as the tracers from her own weapon and Juilliard’s caught it in a crossfire.

  The other one gave up the ghost and ran behind the building, following the others.

  “Kurnow!”

  “Coming!”

  Kurnow emerged from the FBO office and ran toward her.

  “About time,” Boisson said. “Did you find the keys?”

  “Yeah…” Kurnow patted one of the pockets of her flight suit. “Yeah, they’re right here. I brought all of them.”

  “Good. Because we’re taking two of these trucks.”

  “Right. Okay.” Kurnow opened the door to one of the trucks and was about to climb inside.

  “Why don’t you take the one with the Jet-A,” Boisson told her. “I’ve got plans for the gasoline.”

  “Sure. Let me find the key for it.” After trying a few, the engine growled into life and Kurnow hopped down.

  “Juilliard, go with her and watch our asses,” Boisson said. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before those things get in behind us.”

  The agent nodded and joined Kurnow in the cab of the truck with the Jet-A fuel as Kurnow started the engine.

  Boisson climbed up into the cab of the gas truck and slammed the door closed. She’d driven heavy vehicles before in the Marines, and this one wasn’t that different. Putting it into gear and releasing the brake, she jammed down on the accelerator, heading toward the taxiway that led to Runway 32 and then back to the Air Force section of the airport, careful to avoid the larvae oozing across the concrete.

  Kurnow followed close behind.

  ***

  “Okay, baby,” Ferris whispered, “here we go.”

  With his hand firmly on the four throttle levers, he eased them forward and released the brakes. The cockpit felt absurdly lonely without a copilot. He was confident he could fly the plane alone, but he missed having an extra set of hands, eyes, and a brain to handle the plane.

  The engines rose in pitch, and as the plane began to roll forward, he eased back slightly on the throttles, balancing the thrust against the plane’s inertia. Except for rapid scans of the instruments, his eyes were fixed up ahead on the narrow strip of asphalt that separated him from the main taxiway.

  The three agents were making their way along the taxiway to the north, flaming any larvae they found. They’d have to clear about four thousand feet of taxiway, plus nearly ten thousand feet of runway. As one of the agents bent down and blasted another larva with his makeshift hair spray flamethrower, Ferris couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or cry. They’d never clear the runway in time.

  “Shit,” he cursed as he gently applied the brakes. The plane had picked up more speed than he’d intended. His sphincter puckered as the nose gear passed over the huge yellow X, and he felt like he was violating a law of nature by ignoring it.

  Looking ahead, he began to sweat as he saw just how narrow the asphalt strip was. The minimum safe runway width for the plane was seventy-five feet. The connector to the main taxiway was maybe twenty.

  He tightened his grip on the throttles as the nose gear thumped from the concrete apron to the asphalt connector.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the three agents turn to watch.

  He caressed the brakes, slowing ever so slightly as the main gear moved to the connector with another set of thumps. The plane was arrow straight down the center of the asphalt strip…

  The starboard side suddenly dipped down and the nose began to slew to the right. He brought up the power in the starboard engines and eased the nose wheel left. More…more…more…

  With a sudden heave, the plane began to move again, and he had to quickly bring up the power in the port engines to compensate.

  “Come on, baby,” he whispered as the plane juddered and bounced. He knew the asphalt must be collapsing under the mains, sinking into the ground. He eased the throttles forward even more. It was a risk, but he couldn’t let the plane get stuck.

  The main gear began to sink even deeper, nearly bringing the plane’s forward movement to a halt.

  Gritting his teeth, Ferris pushed the throttles forward to the stops. It was all or nothing now.

  “Come on, goddammit! Give me another hundred feet!”

  As if it were fighting its way out of a mud bog, the plane moved forward slowly, ever so slowly, then finally surged forward.

  Ferris pulled back on the throttles as the nose gear crossed over onto the main taxiway, then throttled back more as the mains followed. Turning the plane hard to the right, he centered the nose on the taxiway and moved up to where the agents stood waiting.

  “Goddamn,” he sighed, wiping his sweaty forehead with his sleeve.

  Looking out the windscreen,
he saw not one, but two fuel trucks racing toward him on the taxiway from the main passenger terminal area.

  “There’s some good news for a change.” Overcoming a sudden dreadful certainty that they wouldn’t start again, he shut down the engines.

  A voice erupted from his headset, startling him. “Ferris, this is Richards, come in.”

  “Ferris here, over.”

  “What’s your status, over?”

  The truck driven by Kurnow slid past the tip of the port wing and parked close to the fuselage. “I can confirm the plane should fly. The engines work, at least. Boisson found us some fuel, which we’re going to start pumping in soon. The big problem is going to be clearing the taxiway and runway of any larvae.”

  “What’s so tough about that?”

  Ferris rolled his eyes. “We’re only talking about clearing maybe, oh, ten or twelve thousand feet, and I’ve got three feebs with cans of hairspray and lighters to do the job.”

  Richards was silent for a moment.

  Dumb-ass, Ferris thought as Boisson, who was driving the second fuel truck, turned to face the same direction as the plane along the taxiway, bringing it to a stop about a hundred yards ahead of the plane.

  “Is there any chance you’ll have it cleared soon?”

  “I don’t see how, Carl. We can’t afford to miss a single larva, and that’s nearly two miles for these guys to cover…”

  Boisson got out of the fuel truck and trotted off to the side of the runway. She waved to the agents and shouted something. They didn’t seem to understand, and she shouted again. They dropped prone to the ground.

  Then she turned to face the truck and raised her rifle.

  Ferris had forgotten the mic was still open to Richards when he exclaimed, “Holy shit!”

  ***

  Like most other people who owned a television, Boisson had seen her fair share of action shows. She’d lived one most of her adult life, first in the Marines, then in the FBI. She’d done a lot of crazy things but nothing as insane as what she was about to try.