The Harvester

by Sean A. Murtaugh

  Sean A. Murtaugh

  Copyright © 2014 Sean A. Murtaugh

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

  New York, NY

  First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2014

  ISBN 978-1-62838-840-4 (pbk)

  ISBN 978-1-62838-841-1 (digital)

  ISBN 978-1-62838-842-8 (hardcover)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  I dedicate this novel to my family, especially to my mother, the strongest person I know and who always believed in my dreams. And to my father who told me to never give up on them.

  My name is Harvey. At least, that’s my real name.

  I’ve had a lot of nicknames over the years, most of ’em derogatory. My official job title: Harvester Agent number 2748. My job description: to keep the balance of the Here and the After equal and to capture and extradite the ones who have slipped through the cracks of this world and the After and refuse to stay dead. Well, they’re already dead, but they refuse to stay in the After—either Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory—and want to stay in this world, the Here.

  Some of ’em look like any other person, and some are very tricky. But I’ve been successfully employed in this career for over nine hundred years now for a reason. I know how to sniff out the bastards.

  I quietly walk further into a very old cemetery at two or so in the morning. My Harvester uniform is quite unconventional. I’m clad in a white button-up dress shirt, black trench coat, black Harley-Davidson style boots with razor-sharp spurs, white dress slacks, and tight black leather gloves. A certain odor floats by me and I stop in my place and deeply inhale through my nostrils. Suddenly, I see him step out from behind a moderately-sized mausoleum.

  He’s the very definition, the personification of being a punker mixed with the cliché-gothic type. He wears black leather pants, a torn rocker-style T-shirt, skateboarder-style shoes, with spiked hair and lots of gel in it. He also wears a spiked neck collar, a red jacket and sports a bit of eye shadow, and is my age, thirty-two. His name is Vega. He sprints toward me, jumps onto a tombstone, and flips into the air at me like a gymnast. I’m quicker than that, and I snatch him out of midair and toss him to the patchy grass. He rolls a few feet, hops up, and pulls out two daggers from under his jacket and stares at me with his piercing yellow eyes. Vega smirks at me and I realize he has sharp fangs like an animal of the twisted sort.

  “Nice teeth, Vega. I see you’ve been experimenting on yourself.”

  Vega shrugs his shoulders with a boyish grin, to be sarcastic, of course.

  “Genetics. The possibilities are endless.” Vega squints and observes me more closely. “No weapons, Harvester? This is very unlike you.”

  I undrape my trench coat to the right to reveal my one of a kind, priceless katana, a Japanese sword fastened to my backside. It was a gift from an old Japanese friend.

  Vega releases a quick chuckle. “You need to learn to contemporize, old friend. You’re still living in the primitive days.”

  I’m anxious to bring Vega in to be tried and convicted by the six Heads for his multitude of crimes, so I begin to pace. I can’t help but pace. “They were primitive days when I first began hunting you. Using this body to hide, then that body. First, you’re in Spain during the Inquisition, then France with Napoleon. Colombia was fun. Pablo Escobar? Really? Very tricky.”

  Vega scoffs with an attitude. “Tricky? No. Absolutely fun.”

  “Well, the fun ends here. Under Article XIII of the Agency, I’m taking you in.”

  Vega peers around the cemetery. “Kind of fitting, don’t you think? That the end takes place in this old cemetery. The same cemetery we began our partnership so many damn years ago.”

  “Stop with the nostalgic memories, Vega. I’m getting goose bumps all over.”

  Vega takes a combative stance. “Dispense with the pleasantries? Fine. Let’s do this.”

  I’m confident that I can win this battle, but I know Vega is not one to be trifled with. He’s just as old as me and knows plenty about war and combat. And yes, we were partners once upon a time and he knows a lot about me. But even he doesn’t know one crucial part of my history.

  Over six hundred years ago, for fifty years, I studied one-on-one with the greatest warrior of all time. I know what you’re thinking. What about Napoleon? Hannibal? Alexander the Great? Genghis Khan? Julius Caesar? Yes, they were great warriors too, but they had their own armies.

  Who I’m referring to was a ronin, a true samurai without a master, which is the meaning of a ronin. He had no army and battled on his own. Now, to say that, well, makes the others I named no way in his circle of battle. His name was Miyamoto Musashi. Yes, he was Japanese. He dueled over sixty warriors, sometimes outnumbered, and he never lost once. He even battled twelve well-trained warriors at once and killed them all.

  His first duel and kill was at the tender age of eleven when he strolled into a village in Kyoto, Japan, and wanted to make a name for himself, which is important for a warrior looking to be employed. So he went to the number one dojo—a house for training martial artists—taught usually by a topnotch sensei, a master teacher in the arts, and challenged him to a duel to the death. At first, the sensei, in front of his students, laughed and tried to usher the young Miyamoto away. But Miyamoto slapped his hand off his shoulder, slapped the sensei’s face, and called him a coward. To not lose credibility, which a sensei treasures, and to just teach the child a lesson, the sensei drew his sword. Miyamoto, thinking this was the sign to begin battle, drew his brilliant sword and, with patience, waited for the sensei to make the first move.

  However, he did not.

  He yelled at the sensei, “I knew it! You’re a coward, and you bring disgrace to yourself, your students, and your dojo!”

  Even at his young age, this was a tactic of his, and I would eventually learn and utilize this numerous times in the future. A crowd gathered. Some made fun of the disgraced sensei and congratulated Miyamoto for his courage. The sensei—enraged, hostile, high-tempered—allowed his emotions to get to him and rushed Miyamoto with his sword raised. Miyamoto, only eleven, mind you, had already learned the ways to make somebody uncomfortable, off balance, and out of their element by playing to their emotions. This, and many more techniques, he learned over five decades of dueling and warring and he never lost a duel in his life .

  The sensei—enraged, hostile, humiliated—hastily tried a deathblow on Miyamoto, who easily dodged it and delivered a swipe of his sword across the back of the sensei’s neck.

  Everyone was shocked. A well known, well-trained master was struck first by a stranger, a child. He dropped to the ground and died within seconds. All who were watching cheered and saluted Miyamoto, even the sensei’s students. But it was short-lived due to Miyamoto, with zero arrogance, leaving to challenge more talented duelists to gain even more skills, styles, and knowledge in the ways of the warrior.

  He was fifty-seven when he chose to train me. I was personally handpicked out of three thousand in the Harvester Agency by he himself. I said what he was capable of at eleven. Can you imagine what he was capable of at fifty-seven? All the things he learned by then. Damn! I felt like the luckiest Harvester Agent, period. It was an honor to simply meet this man, who, at the time, was already a legend in all the civilized world.

  There are over a hundred books on this man, movies made about him, and even the book Art of War—considered to be one of the greatest, wisest, most intelligent combat books and guide, if you will—took a lot of information from Miyamoto’s books and memoirs.

  However, with that said, Vega, my once friend and now nemesis, has been off the radar for over twenty years. I have no idea what h
e has learned or even mastered in that timeframe. A chance I’m willing to take. This is my job, my life. It’s funny to say “my life” considering I’ve been dead for longer than I can remember. What I’ve learned in my many years is that most have a tendency to run away from confrontations, danger. But people, rare people like Vega and myself, run headlong into it, without a doubt or second thought. We thrive and even enjoy it. I need it. That’s all I’ve known.

  Back at the cemetery, Vega stares me down like a strong, healthy, hungry lioness stalking an injured gazelle on the African plains of the Serengeti. I’ve seen this look numerous times ever since I was a child and it does not bother me. I know he truly feels he can take me out and I know he knows I feel I can truly take him out. He’s my number one nemesis, and if I can bring him in for atrocities he made against mankind and for breaking all the Agency’s laws, the war between the Agency and the Underworld will finally come to an end.

  With skill and precision, Vega hurls his knives at me.

  In a nanosecond, they are inches away from my chest. I dive out of their trajectory, spring up, and rocket toward Vega.

  I draw my sword in midstride, and Vega pulls out a handgun and aims it directly at me. He fires off one round, which penetrates my left shoulder, but I am still able to thrust my sword downward and slice through Vega’s gun-wielding hand. He slumps over, clutches his wound, and groans in pain. I stay alert and I’m ready to deliver the final strike. Vega maniacally laughs. Then, I witness something I have never seen. Vega’s hand regenerates and he waves it at me with a wicked smile.

  “What the—” I’m at a loss for words.

  “Good as new, Harv.” He backs up a bit and produces two more throwing knives. “Now, where were we, partner?”

  It was true. We were partners. We were the best. We also were best friends and partners for so many years until he grew restless working for the Agency and decided to literally jump ship and joined the other side, the Underworld. He said we were fighting for the wrong reasons and against the wrong people. Now, Vega has gained too much power in the Underworld and has become its leader. Ever since he switched sides, I guess you can say it has been a personal vendetta to capture him and bring him in. But he’s not the type to be captured, so I’ll have to kill him, I’m sure. Just the way I prefer it.

  Vega spits on the ground and points at me. “How’d you find me anyway? I’ve been able to stay off the Agency’s radar for a long time. How?”

  It was two weeks earlier, in my humble, clean apartment. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony played as I was busy sharpening my sword. My sword is very important to me. Like the ancient samurai, you must think of your sword as an extension of oneself. Several other weapons lie on a long marble table, already sharpened. Almost all the Harvesters across the world have contemporized and changed with the times and use guns as their primary weapon. Not me. I’m an older, more traditional guy stuck in the Middle Ages. Sure, there are some cases where guns are necessary. However, the most effective way to make sure a Code Breaker 498 travels successfully to the After is by slicing the bastard’s head clean off. Now you simply can’t do that with a gun, can you? Call me old-fashioned.

  After I cleaned all my weapons, I immediately jumped into my stringent exercise routine: pushups, stomach crunches, jogging on the treadmill, and lots of practicing swordplay.

  Postworkout, I wrote in my journal, which I have been writing in for centuries. I guess you can say it’s sort of my memoir. Someday, it may be of use to someone. As I paused for a moment and stared out my window, a manila envelope was slid under my door. I’ve been working the Vega case for so long now that my boss makes me work side cases in order to keep me sharp and busy. With recent infiltration at the Agency by at least one Underworld spy, I prefer very little contact with anyone there until we root out any and all spies. So I receive my cases via manila envelope under my door. I haven’t survived in this line of work for as long as I have by not being cautious.

  I opened the envelope and pulled out the file. It consisted of a photo of a suave-looking white man with a cocky smile and appearance. Under the photo it states,

  Earth name: Billy Gunn

  Code Breaker number: 8937

  Offenses: Body snatching, soul scavenging, enslaving souls

  Natural life ended: Five years ago

  Status: Harvest or kill.

  Harvest or kill? Those are my favorite type of cases.

  My eyes darted to the bottom of the file, and I read the last information on Billy Gunn, and it stated that he’s a Class 4 Demon. Great. I hate demons. Anyone or anything who thinks like me and is trickier than me should never be trusted. Trust me.

  Now the trick to capturing a Class 4 Demon is to track ’em to their regular hangouts and follow ’em to a safe location in order to extract the bastard out of the innocent host body without injuring or even killing them.

  Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t. Billy Gunn’s file stated that he loves beautiful strippers, and the only strip club that offers that is on the north side of this wicked city. So I found myself at the strip club, Perfections. I wore a specially made, high-tech pair of spectacles, which can detect a Demon’s heat pattern. I casually strolled to the back of the bustling strip club. A cornucopia of smells inundated my nasal passages. All the strippers’ perfume overwhelmed me. To top it off, the smells of food, alcohol, men’s cologne, and body odor attacked my senses. Hard rock-and-roll music blared as a woman, who should no way in hell be dancing, worked the stripper pole like an Olympic gymnast trying to win the gold.

  The club was rather busy, so I found myself with my head on a swivel. I observed everyone to find the demon’s heat pattern. I finally spotted it within a large African American male in his midtwenties. The demon, Billy Gunn, has picked the appropriate body to inhabit. He’s very muscular and intimidating looking. He sat in the far corner, so I nonchalantly sat a few tables away from him. I observed Billy as he snatched his pint of beer and downed it in one massive gulp. For some strange reason, demons love alcohol.

  I can’t blame them. So do I. He then grabbed a shot of some sort of hard alcohol and downed that too. A pretty dancer strutted by him and he held her back and tried to make her sit on his lap. She slapped him across the face and he quickly responded by returning the slap, sending her several feet across the club and crashing into a table of patrons.

  Billy erupted in laughter. He stood and headed toward the bathroom. I kept my eyes on him. He abruptly stopped, sniffed the air, and scanned the club. He stopped when he spotted me. He grew suspicious but continued toward the bathroom while staring at me with a scowl.

  Shit. He’s on to me. Damn demons have German shepherd noses, I thought to myself. I must make a move now before he escapes.

  So I quickly sprang up. I noticed that Billy had realized who I was.

  Even though the strip club was loud, my keen senses could hear Billy mutter, “A Harvester…”

  I walked to Billy, who slightly touched a man on his shoulder as he walked by him. Billy simply stood in his place as I reached him with a confused expression on his face. “Where am I? How’d I get here?” he asked with a genuine tone in his voice.

  I realized what Billy Gunn has done. “Shit!” I exclaimed with disappointment.

  I shot a look to the exit and saw Billy in his new host body as he opened the door, stared back at me with a sinister smirk, and exited.

  “Damn demon!” I shouted out loud.

  I gave chase. It’s not always like this. Most of the Code Breakers simply don’t want to go to the After and want to stay in the Here. But when they see me coming to Harvest their souls, well, they don’t put up a fight or chase. They all know my golden rule: You run or try to fight and waste my time, then your head is mine.

  I ran into an alley where, I’m rather sure, Billy escaped to. I know Billy will be more of a challenge to bring in to be tried by the six Heads than most Code Breakers. All was eerily quiet as I stealthily proceeded deeper into the all
ey, which was cluttered with trash and overflowing Dumpsters. The sounds of street traffic echoed from behind me. I was surprised when I saw glowing red eyes from the nearby shadows. I paused too long and Billy took advantage of my lapse, and with his now sharp claws, he slashed at my back and ripped into me. I was sent forward a bit, but my injury did not really faze me. Harvester Agents heal quickly and have a high threshold for pain. I spun around and saw Billy step out of the shadows in his new host body.

  “Nice move, Billy. But it won’t work again,” I told him with my normal, confident tone.

  Billy appeared surprised. “How do you know my name? Who are you?” he asked me with a now concerned voice.

  I drew my sword out from under my trench coat. “I’m Harvester Agent number 2748, and I’m here to take you to the After for good.”

  It’s obvious Billy Gunn had heard of me before because now he looked intimidated and worried. “Harvey the Harvester?” he asked.

  I smiled at Billy. “The one and only.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” he replied.

  “I don’t doubt it. And since you’ve heard of me, then you know you should come peacefully.”

  Billy began to nervously pace but tried to not show it. But I picked up on the signs.

  “Why are you fighting against us? You should be on the frontline for us in this war, man,” he tried to convince me.

  “It’s not my war, asshole. I’m just doing my job of keeping the balance of the good and the evil and dead and alive equal,” I told this demon who was trying to reason with me.

  Billy laughed at my comment and shook his fat head. “Good and evil, huh? Whatever you gotta tell yourself to sleep better at night. All I know is when the shit hits the fan, you better hope you’re on Vega’s side.”

  I couldn’t help but scowl with interest when I heard this. I haven’t been able to track Vega in twenty years, and now this. “What do you know about Vega?” I asked the demon.