The Harvest

by N. W. Harris

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  “Don’t we get any body armor or at least goggles?” one of the Finns asked.

  “No, of course not,” Jones answered abruptly. “So try not to get shot in the face.”

  He pointed at a small Israeli flag sticking out of the ground. “This is the starting point for the Israeli team here in front of me. Each team has their own starting point. Teams three, four and five are that way,” he pointed left, “and the rest of you are on my right. You have three minutes to get in front of your flag. When you hear this,” Jones honked a handheld aerosol foghorn, “you may begin. Go to your starting places.”

  Shane and his group headed west at a brisk pace along the narrow path behind the buildings. The other two nationalities whose flags were in the same direction followed them, the gravel crunching loudly under everyone’s feet.

  “You ever been hit by one of these?” Steve waved his gun.

  “No.”

  “Well, it hurts like the dickens,” he replied. “And it leaves a nasty welt.”

  “Then we’d best not get hit,” Tracy advised bluntly.

  They found the little American flag sticking out of the leaf litter and watched the Koreans and Fins pass, walking toward their own flags.

  “What’s our strategy?” Tracy asked in a hushed voice, her eyes on Shane.

  “I reckon we should charge straight up and try to get to the flag as fast as we can,” he replied.

  “Three of us should go in the middle, and the rest should flank them,” Maurice suggested. “That way, the people on the sides can act as a defense and give us the best chance of getting at least one person up and down without getting shot.”

  “Sounds good,” Shane said. “Who’s in the middle?”

  “You, Tracy, and Steve,” Maurice replied decisively. “You’re the fittest of us, and if we get shot, you have the best chance of fighting your way back down without us.”

  A flash of insult crossed Jules’ face, perhaps because she was the best runner on the team. She kept quiet, and her expression quickly cleared, like she was committed to doing whatever Maurice recommended. Shane was flattered the stout boy had so much faith in him. It reminded him of the trip to the capitol, when he had stepped ahead of Shane to protect him so he could get downtown to the limbic manipulator.

  “I don’t think I can make it up there,” Laura said. She was still flushed red from the run, and her eyes were drooping with exhaustion.

  Tracy glared at her, and Shane feared she was about to say something mean.

  “Do your best,” Kelly replied kindly before Tracy had a chance. “I bet you can if you try.”

  “I’m not so sure I can get up there either. If you can’t make it,” Maurice said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “stop wherever you get to and wait for us to come back down. Hide, and be ready to ambush anyone who might be on our tails.”

  “Got it,” Laura replied. A measure of confidence returned to her expression.

  “Good thinking, Maurice,” Shane said, impressed. “Same goes for everyone else.”

  “And we need to conserve our rounds,” Steve pointed out. “These hoppers hold about two hundred paintballs, and they only look half full.”

  “So we’ve got a hundred rounds each,” Shane said. “Seems like plenty.”

  “Obviously, you’ve never played paintball,” Tracy replied. “The rounds go fast. Don’t shoot until you have an easy target.”

  “If we head straight up, I don’t think we’ll encounter the other teams ‘til we’re near the top,” Kelly pointed out.

  “Right,” Jules chimed in. “Let’s run with everything we got. Coming back down will be easy.”

  “If anyone gets shot, someone pick up their gun so we have extra rounds.”

  The handheld air horn sounded, its mournful note spurring Shane’s pulse to a gallop.

  “Go, go, go!” he shouted, and he and his friends tore through the underbrush into the forest.

  The mountain was steeper than it looked from below. Shane and his team slipped in the leaf litter and grabbed tree branches to keep from falling. They settled into a clip that was as fast as they could go while still maintaining their formation. Two minutes into the woods, Laura stopped. It would have bothered Shane to see her give up so easily, but then, having her there, rested and ready to shoot anyone following them back down, was an appealing idea.

  “Just like running the bleachers at practice,” Steve said. He was huffing rhythmically behind Shane. Tracy took up the rear of their center column.

  “Yeah, but a whole heck of a lot slicker,” Shane gasped.

  After four minutes of climbing, Shane’s quads were on fire. The hill got even steeper, and he dug the toes of his running shoes into the soft ground for traction. Their crashing footsteps and labored breathing made it impossible to hear if any of the other teams approached, but he expected they’d all head straight up and collide near the top. Steve had the sharpest eyes in the forest, having been a hunter all of his life. He hoped the linebacker would see the other teams before they saw them.

  “How much further can it possibly be?” Maurice groaned. He was climbing on the right side, leaning too much and sweating profusely.

  “Can’t be too far,” Jules encouraged, her long legs and wiry runner’s body better suited for the task. “Keep pushing.”

  Orange splattered a tree one foot ahead of Shane, sending a jolt of adrenaline into his blood.

  “On your left,” Steve shouted.

  The Russians ran along the side of the mountain, moving faster than his group because they weren’t heading straight up.

  “They’re coming right at us!” Kelly dropped to her knee, aiming her gun.

  “Keep going,” Tracy yelled.

  Kelly’s head snapped back, paint streaking her blonde hair. She screamed and held her face in her hands. Shane pointed his gun in the direction of the approaching Russians and fired. They were hopscotching between trees, hiding before they tried to take a shot. They clearly had more experience in this sort of game than his people did.

  “Hurts like hell, but she’ll be okay,” Steve promised, coming alongside Shane such that he shielded him from the Russians. “We can make it if we don’t stop.”

  He knew his friend was right, but it didn’t extinguish his urge to tend to Kelly. Knowing she’d be upset if he stopped, he leaned forward into the mountain and pumped his legs as hard as he could. A splat came from his left, and Steve cursed.

  “I’ve been hit.”

  He tossed Shane his gun and dropped off.

  A few more yards up the hill, he heard Steve shouting, “You already got me, you bastards,” followed by wicked laughter from the Russians.

  “I’m still behind you,” Tracy said. “Keep going!”

  Having lost Laura and Kelly on the left side, Shane ordered Maurice to cross over and provide protection. Amazingly enough, the preacher’s son was still with them.

  “There are four of us left—we got this,” he said, trying to motivate his dwindling team.

  “I gotta stop here,” Maurice huffed. “I’ll keep ‘em off you.” He turned around and sat on the mountain, taking aim downhill.

  A few more yards and Shane saw the sunlight showing through the trees above them.

  “We made it,” he announced excitedly.

  “Here come the others,” Jules warned.

  Shane looked right and could see shadows moving between the trees.

  “The flag!” Tracy shouted.

  Up ahead, a red flag on a wooden dowel stuck out of the leaf litter. Shane’s group had gotten lucky. Charging straight up, they had the shortest distance to the top. The other teams were climbing at an angle to get to the same point. He snatched the flag out of the ground and shoved it into the elastic band of his shorts. Paintballs exploded on the trees around them, and the frustrated shouts of the other kids echoed through the forest.

  “Back down, fast,” he yelled.

  They spun and raced do
wn the mountain. Shane basically let his body fall, throwing his feet in front of himself to keep from landing on his face. He pointed his gun ahead and Steve’s to the side where the Russians had come from, randomly firing shots in hopes he’d get lucky or at least keep the other teams at bay.

  “Ouch!” Jules shouted. “I’m hit. Keep going.”

  “I’ll cover you,” Tracy said, taking Jules’ gun. “Let me in front.”

  Shane slowed just enough for her to pass. It didn’t take long for them to encounter the Russians again. He saw them looking up the hill. They shouted at each other and dropped to their knees, firing their weapons at Tracy and Shane.

  Their strategy became apparent. They were waiting, rested and ready to attack whoever retrieved the flag and then pick up the fumble. Smart, even if it did stink of cheating.

  Although he could easily run faster than she could down the hill, he tried to stay behind Tracy the best he could, firing over and around her. She had two guns pointed straight ahead, spraying out the rounds. Paintballs found one of the girls and the two dark-haired boys, one of which had already been shot and shouldn’t have been fighting. Shane recognized the cheater as the boy Kelly had kicked in the balls and worried he might try to take revenge in the woods. They took four vaulting strides and were almost on top of the Russians when Tracy got shot in the face. She lost her balance and slid down the mountain on her belly.

  Shane leapt into the air, expecting to land on top of her. His foot touching down between her outstretched arm and her skull. He cleared Tracy’s sprawled body and accelerated.

  Fifteen feet below, Anfisa, the stoic leader of the Russian squad, was squatting on her knee, her gun leveled at Shane. He was moving too fast, fast enough to break something if he hit a tree. He pulled his triggers, aiming an impossibility. Despite bouncing wildly down the slope, Shane saw her calm, glacial blue eyes focus on him and a triumphant smile rise on her sunburned face. He squinted, bracing for the stinging wallop of a paintball.

  Maurice exploded from under the branches of a fallen tree just above her. Anfisa shifted her aim and rounds from her gun splattered his chest and face, but the shouting boy was airborne, and nothing could stop him from hitting her.

  “Woo-hoo!” Shane yelled. He leapt into the air, clearing his friend and the tackled Russian.

  “Get him!” Anfisa shouted angrily from under Maurice.

  Even over his heavy breathing and the sound of his own feet crashing through the leaves, Shane heard a person, or persons, running down the mountain behind him. The Russians had conserved their energy, waiting for his descent. He sensed they were on his heels and kicked even harder, expecting to trip and get a face-full of tree trunk. Paintballs splatted on trees to the left and right, and the shouts grew louder.

  Surprise and relief swept away his woes. Laura hid behind a tree ahead, her gun aimed uphill and her hopper still full. He smiled at the thought that the two least athletic people on his team were turning out to be the MVPs in this game.

  His pursuers would never know what hit them. She grinned as he passed, and then he heard her targets cursing angrily.

  Not certain he was safe but energized by the nearness of victory, Shane ran even faster. The slope diminished near the base, and there was less risk of wiping out. He could see the undergrowth at the edge of the forest, could see the gravel roof of the cafeteria building—and then someone smashed into his back.

  He tumbled forward, hammering a root with his knee. The inertia sent him and his assailant head over heels into the blackberry bushes. Thorns sliced his bare arms and legs, then his head hit something hard. Hot pain flashed through his skull. He blinked his eyes, struggling to maintain consciousness. The tall, blond Russian boy scrambled through the briars and jumped on Shane’s chest. He punched Shane in the face with his left and then right fist, shouting.

  “Give me the damn flag!”

  Reaching up and wrapping his arms around the boy’s torso, Shane pulled him down. Then he rolled to the right, rose up, and dropped an elbow as hard as he could into his nose. The boy yelped in pain. Shane broke free of his grasp and launched out of the bushes, leaping as high as he could in the air to get through them.

  The drop on the other side was further than he expected, and when he landed, he tumbled forward, his head smashing on the concrete foundation of the cafeteria. Shane groaned and gritted his teeth. His mouth filled with blood.

  Jones was above him, looking down. His lips moved, but Shane couldn’t hear what he was saying. Tracy’s sweaty face appeared. Then Steve, Maurice, Jules, and Laura showed up. They leaned over him, huffing for air and splattered with neon paint, and smiled wildly.

  Shane couldn’t stop the world spinning. He blinked, his vision going in and out of focus. Then Kelly appeared. Her forehead had a red welt growing on it, and orange splattered her hair. She was beautiful, even covered in sweat, paint, and dirt. Her sapphire eyes sparkled with joy, something he hadn’t seen much since her family died.

  Her voice cut through the ringing in his ears, bringing him out of his daze.

  “We did it,” she shouted. “You did it, Shane!”

  They helped him to his feet, and she embraced him. His head hurt, and his legs didn’t want to stay under him, but his team had won. It was a sweeter victory than he’d ever earned on the gridiron. He glanced around at the disappointed faces of the foreigners, amazed his team had beaten them all. Kelly grabbed his head and pulled him down to her, pressing her lips against his. His busted mouth stung when she kissed him, but he didn’t pull away.

  “Do you have the flag?” Jones asked sternly, interrupting their revelry.

  The rest of the teens came out of the forest and gathered around, some looking angry and others defeated. Only the Australians, all of whom had paint splotches, likely victims of the Russians’ seek-and-destroy strategy, seemed relatively happy about the Americans’ victory.

  “Do you have the flag?” Jones repeated.

  Shane looked down. His black shirt had a viscous wetness near the waistline, different from the sweat saturating the rest of it. Fear that he’d lost the flag in the scuffle with the Russian overcame him. When he lifted his shirt, pain tore across his abdomen.

  “Oh, Shane,” Kelly gasped.

  Cringing, he lifted his shirt higher, and the red part of the flag flipped out. The wooden dowel attached to it was broken, the halves piercing deep into the flesh of his belly.

  Seeing the puncture wound made the pain tenfold worse. Shane’s head seemed to swell, his vision blurring and the ringing returning to his ears.

  “You okay, Shane?” Steve asked, his big hand clamping around Shane’s arm.

  “I’m… ” He collapsed forward, Kelly catching him.

  “Bring him to medical,” Shane heard Dr. Blain say.

  Steve and Maurice slipped under Shane’s arms and helped him limp along behind the doctor. She’d just treated him yesterday, and now he already needed her services again. A lot of the kids had seen her today. Shane figured this wouldn’t be his last visit.

  They stepped onto the tarmac, and the intense heat radiating off the asphalt made Shane nauseous. He gritted his teeth to keep the vomit down.

  The air-conditioning in the infirmary hit him like healing magic. He sighed, then sucked in a deep breath of the refreshing coolness and heard Steve and Maurice do the same. Dr. Blain had them take him into the exam room and lay him on the padded table.

  “There’s a little fridge in the waiting room. Go get yourselves a drink from it, and I’ll patch him up,” she said cheerfully to his friends.

  Steve and Maurice’s eyes widened at her offer, and they hustled out of the room.

  “Okay, let’s see the damage,” she said, her tone soft and nurturing.

  She cut his shirt off, and he winced when the bloody cloth tugged on the dowel.

  “Nice one,” she said with genuine admiration.

  “I think you enjoy your job a bit too much,” he grumbled.

  “Perha
ps.” Chuckling, she moved her little medical device over the wound and then latched onto the piece of wood. “Take a deep breath.”

  He started to, but then she jerked the dowel out. Shane moaned in agony.

  “All done. The rest is easy,” she promised, smiling compassionately.

  He closed his eyes. His abdomen warmed under her device. After she was done with the wound from the flag, she treated his concussion and the other injuries to his face and head. Moments later, he was mended, but he was still busted from all the exercise.

  “I want you to drink this and sit here for a little bit before you try to get up.” She handed him a bottle of water.

  “I can’t argue with that.” Shane was parched, and in no hurry to return to the sultry tarmac.

  He drank gulps of the water and laid back. Dr. Blain started typing notes on her futuristic computer.

  “How many of you are there on Earth?” Shane asked, wondering at how the rebels and this base seemed pretty well prepared for their training, though there was no need for it until a few days ago.

  “Not enough.” She didn’t look up from her work.

  He suspected he’d never get a direct answer to that question.

  “Why does Captain Jones have a scar on his face?”

  Dr. Blain’s ever-present smile faded.

  “It reminds him of something. But as far as I know, he’s never told anyone what,” she replied sadly. “He was on the ship with Lily.”

  Shane’s brow rose, the revelation surprising him, though it did make sense.

  “They’re like parents to us,” she added distantly. Then she focused on him, and her expression grew clouded with guilt. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to sound insensitive.”

  “It’s alright,” Shane replied, glancing down at his hands. “I’ve had a while to get used to losing my mom, so it’s only half as bad for me as some of the kids.”