The Harvester

by Sean A. Murtaugh

  “Let’s rock and roll!” I shout to everyone, and they shout it back.

  The scientists appear a bit confused and absolutely terrified. They have no idea what’s about to transpire. They make no attempts to try and fit in with us due to them not knowing how whatsoever. Their fear can be seen, but even worse, it can be smelt by us Harvesters. And it’s a stench that we’ve all smelt before and can never get out of our nostrils.

  I step in front of everyone and address them. “I don’t care if Vega has a submarine or not. We stick to the plan. Let’s do it, gentlemen. Stay frosty!”

  Mr. Herald views our undercover Harvester cops through his binoculars. “Our guys have traffic stopped.”

  The media vans speed off to one of them. I bet that’s going to upset Vega. As soon as they get to them, they will make sure to hold them there, so we can handle business without the world watching. We notice the submarine dives and vanishes into the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean.

  Mr. Herald presses a button on his laptop and a Black Door emanates out of the concrete. One-by-one we step into it and vanish. The Black Door reappears on the Golden Gate right where Vega said for us to meet him. We step out of it and it disappears into the street. Now we play the waiting game. This is the part I hate. I thoroughly enjoy the hunt and even more so, the combat. Even before I was a Harvester and still had a beating heart, I loved it.

  I was raised in a time and age when all males, some females too, at an early age, learned the ways of the sword, combat, horse riding, grandiose battles, and were used to lots of blood spilt. By the age of eleven, I had already killed six men, men, adults, and I had no qualms about doing so. I guess you can call me sanguinary by way of the battle.

  The year, was 1109 AD, the middle of what most historians claimed to be the period which determined Germany’s fate. I was of royal blood, yet my family line was one of brave, brutal warriors and knights as well. It was a time of civil war and feudal lords battling each other for land and more importantly, the crown. My family was aligned with a powerful Lord and had been successful at battles and ruling the land for centuries. My great-great-grandfather was the ruler who helped fend off and eventually drive the mighty Roman Empire out of our land for good. I think that’s a perfect example of the fortitude and downright toughness of my family bloodline.

  Like I stated, I was eleven in 1109 AD, and my father was going to wage war against an opposing faction who were slaughtering innocent civilians, farmers, and traders in our land. My father knew that this must be stopped by any means necessary. My mother told me that on the night I was born, my father held me and looked into my eyes and said, “People say legends are made, not born. With my son, I beg to differ.”

  Due to his thought process of me, I was allowed to join his army at the tender age of eleven. I was the youngest ever to ride into battle. And nobody ever doubted my father, nor my abilities.

  It was a cold, dreary dawn, and I can admit it, even though I have killed before, I was nervous to go into battle. Not due to the chance of dying on the battlefield but rather to disappoint my father. As a youngster, I had nightmares of doing just that. I had two sisters who needn’t worry over such a thing.

  My father’s army straddled their strong, perfectly bred warrior horses and awaited his orders. My father was known as a man of few words, but when he did speak, everyone knew it was important and listened to every word. He truly believed that a man’s actions built true character, not what one says. So when one who believes this to be true does actually speak, it must be crucially important words to take heed to with 100 percent belief. And his army did so and were loyal to the death. When he did save his words for a pre-battle speech, it was definitely designed to pump up his army. Brilliant leaders have been doing this tactic for centuries and it works. My only goal at this stage of my life and until his death was to make my father proud of his only son. Thus, making him look good in our alliances’ eyes. And in the twelfth century, this was incredibly important to warrior fathers with some sort of clout. Even farmers and blacksmiths only want two things: A lucrative business and for their sons to respect ’em and make ’em proud.

  As we ride into battle, at this time, many battles were occurring across the known world. Even Henry V was busily campaigning. But I stayed focused on this one, of course. Revenge for all the innocent deaths befallen our land and country folk. There is no other alternative other than to be victorious.

  “Victory or death in the attempt to be victorious” is what my father would say.

  No retreats. No bargains. No treaties. Even at the age of eleven, I knew this. In a full assault, such as this, my father always rode in front of me in order to clear a path for me, and then, I could attack the ones who become discombobulated to assure my safety and so I could get some kills under my belt. With that said, as both armies charge each other, my father led the charge like any leader should. His hero growing up and still is, was Alexander the Great. He researched, learned, and executed all his techniques and strategies to a tee in order to be a better leader, fighter, warrior.

  He surged ahead of me and immediately began cutting down our enemies. Anyone who survived my father’s onslaught, I took care of like a brilliant knight in his mid twenties. Their eyes were wide with shock to see a preteen on the battlefield there to kill ’em. But I did without any second thoughts. And I must admit, I enjoyed cutting their depraved lives short. That mentality would aid me very much so as a Harvester. When my father did die at the age of ninety-three, I often wondered if I’d see him in Heaven. Later, when I became a Harvester, I discovered he was offered a one-way ticket to Heaven. He was murderous, but he did it in the name of his people and land. It was acceptable for the times. Plus, he was a devout believer in God. He became a warrior for God, ready for the inevitable war against Satan. Look out Satan. My father most likely will be the first to stare you down across the battlefield. The Heavens fully welcomed him, for he was not a bad man. His humanly decisions were considered meant well by “the powers that be.” As for me, my death occurred at the age of thirty-two when I was a feudal lord of our land. I followed in my father’s footsteps when he could no longer battle.

  It was the siege of Lichsten on a rainy morning in the dead of winter. The clouds began to drop a flurry of snow.

  My army was battling the vicious Goths, a nomadic band of marauders and cutthroats. They had been conquering everyone across the land and had now entered my domain. They were not ones to be trifled with, and they were a formidable foe who thoroughly enjoy the battle. I admired that. But that day, they must perish.

  I was atop my horse slaughtering Goth after Goth with my favorite sword. Blood splattered into my horse’s eyes, temporarily blinding her. She went wild and bucked me off to the cold, snowy ground. When I landed, my sword penetrated the side of my stomach. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had an incredibly high threshold for pain. So I stood as four Goths, who saw my fall and injury, rushed me. I don’t blame them. You see weakness in your enemy, then you take advantage of that, and you take them out. The four Goths attacked me at once in a circular formation. I didn’t hesitate, and I dropped to one knee, and with all my strength, I swung my sword in a circular fashion. All four Goths dropped to the ground, holding their stomachs as their intestines spilled out onto the blood-soaked snow. It’s a move my father taught me as a youngster. I quickly realize I’m losing a lot of blood. I begin to feel faint, dizzy even. I definitely do not want to go unconscious during combat. I’d rather die during a duel, the honorable way. Not falling off a horse and stabbing oneself. My people can’t lose their leader. If I die, my people die from the Goths. This made me fight beyond the pain. With that said, I was still losing plenty of blood. I needed to act quick or I knew I would bleed out, and it would be all over for us. Mothers, children, civilians, all dead.

  Like wolves circling an injured deer, the Goths came for me by the droves. I bested one, two, three, four Goths with all of the energy I have left. Some of my men saw my si
tuation and rushed to my aid. I couldn’t handle it any longer.

  I dropped to my knees, feeling very faint. The world spun. I fell to my back. My eyes closed. The next thing I remembered was opening my eyes and seeing a stern-looking powerful man who sat in an elevated throne type of chair.

  He tells me, “Harvey Cholotsy, you are now one of the Undead, a Dead One. You fought gallantly, as usual, but your days of fighting on the battlefield as a living human are over.”

  This news hits me hard. Not because I’m dead, but rather, I’m worried about my family, my people, our land. And it goes without saying that I will definitely miss the battle ever so much.

  He continued with, “However, we can take you to the After, which for you has already been judged to be Heaven. Or, you could work for the Agency as a Harvester Agent for as long as you like.”

  I’m confused, yet intrigued. “What are you saying?”

  “We’ll send you back to the Here, but not the same region, nor alive, and your love for the battle continues in various ways. But you must follow our rules and regulations. What say you?”

  I couldn’t help but to nod with a childish grin across my face. Maybe it was meant to be that I died at this age.

  “I was born for the battle, sir. Yes, yes, I accept your offer,” I told him.

  “Excellent. You’ll be immediately sent to the Agency’s Academy to be trained and educated about exactly what it is we do.”

  “I’m eager to begin.”

  And that was how I was inducted, recruited rather into the Agency. A few centuries later, after America was settled, the Agency set up shop there, and I requested to be reassigned. They agreed.

  Back at the Golden Gate Bridge, the sun rises higher into the sky. I look at my watch and it reads a quarter to six. Any moment, Vega will make his presence known. He’s known for making quite the interesting, even impressive entrances, so we’re ready for anything. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves. I’ve already died once, and I don’t plan on an Underworlder giving me my second death.

  F. Scott Fitzgerald once said that a line in Ernest Hemingway’s book A Farewell to Arms was the greatest ever written. It goes like this: “The world wrecks of everyone.” I certainly believe this to be true and very insightful. In one way or another, it does happen to someone, sometimes a few times over, like to me. But one has to muster enough strength, fortitude, if you will, to continue on. And this transaction will put me to the test.

  The commuters on both sides grow restless, impatient, and some are upset that they can’t continue with their commute to work. When they realize we’re Harvesters, they’ll be filled with ire due to them still thinking we abducted the president. Suddenly, a white flash emanates a few yards in front of us and Vega’s White Door emerges from the street. This is it. My adrenaline gets flowing, and I can’t help but to get excited for the battle. If it comes to that. With the president in the mix, that wouldn’t be a good idea. The media tries to focus their cameras on us, but our undercover Harvester cops break their cameras. This causes a raucous amongst the commuters.

  First to step out of the door are five Underworlders with swords and guns in hand. That was to be expected. The anticipation of seeing Vega and the president build within me. Next, the President steps out with Vega who has an assault rifle jabbed into his back. Vega looks over at me and sarcastically winks. He knows he has the upper hand on the Agency due to him having the president hostage, one of the Heads as a spy for him, and the fact we still don’t know where his headquarters is located. His ego must be blown up to the size of a blimp. I think to myself that Vega could have any number of tricks up his sleeve. I’ve already found out a few of his new creations he accomplished creating in which we never knew even existed.

  He could be planning, plotting anything, and I hope I’m prepared for that. We establish our militaristic style stance. We always fight as a unit like the marines or, even better, the Spartans.

  Vega’s number one guy, the Messenger, guards their White Door. The scientists are scared of this confrontation and back a few feet behind us and take cover.

  I stare down Vega. “Nice try at demonizing the Agency. It didn’t work.”

  Vega chuckles. “Well, half my army are demons, so it makes sense that we gave it the old college try.”

  “So how’s this going to go down?” Mr. Herald asks.

  “Well, Gerald, it’s going down like this. You, my scientists, and ex-partner come with me, and you get Mr. President back safe and sound and we continue with our lives.”

  A single strand on the president’s head rises and is gently plucked. Nobody sees this, but me. Only we know how this act was made possible, and it’s done due the brilliant mind of Djinn. I know there’s no way in hell that we’re going through with Vega’s way. Our way is about to take place, but I must first stall a bit.

  “Well, Vega, I know you better than anyone.”

  I hear a single beep on my watch, and I look down and what I see makes me happy—confirmation. I nod and instantly, a Black Door shoots up from the street and ten Harvesters rocket out with guns in hand. Vega is discombobulated, an emotion I haven’t seen from him in many centuries. He quickly spins around and lays down cover fire. The ten Harvesters scatter for cover and return fire.

  While Vega is occupied, I dash toward the president as my crew returns fire on the Underworlders. The Messenger has the same idea as me, but I get to the president first. I easily pick him up and rocket into the Black Door and vanish. The Messenger tries to pursue, but the Black Door disappears right as he gets to it.

  The president and I arrive at the Travel Center within the Agency. We’re met by a few Harvesters and the vice president.

  “It actually worked!” the vice president shouts. He shakes the president’s hand. “It’s great to see you, Mr. President.”

  “It’s good to be seen other than by Underworlders.” The president turns to me and shakes my hand. “The nation owes you a great deal of gratitude. Your plan worked brilliantly.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. But it takes teamwork and the Agency, all of us achieved this.”

  “Of course, of course. The Agency is crucial to mankind as we know it,” the president says with a sincere, genuine tone in his voice. He turns to the vice president and adds, “We need an immediate press conference notifying the world what has happened, who took me hostage, how I was rescued, and who did it.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. President.”

  I signal to two of the Harvesters to escort them. They nod in confirmation and lead them down the hall.

  A few hours later, back at my apartment, I was notified via phone what transpired after I took the president into our Black Door. The first thing I was told I found impressive. The rusty Mr. Herald got two Underworlder kills. Nice! Vega escaped with his scientists and three injuries to himself. The media only captured glimpses of the altercation. The commuters caught even less. Only one Harvester is now in the After. All in all, it was a successful mission. I also heard the president went global with a press conference about everything that happened. Thus, vindicating the Agency from any and all wrongdoings. The second Witch Trials, as I dubbed them, was a hardship that nobody, unless you deserve it, should have to go through. Everywhere we went we were harassed, cursed at, and even attacked. Mr. Herald changed my Harvesting status from all cases to solely working on Vega’s case. And what Vega doesn’t know, at least I hope, is that I have a trick up my sleeve in progress. There’s several knocks on my front door, and by the secret timing of them, I know who it is. I grab my sword, put it in my sheath, grab two handguns, and place them into my side holsters. Then I grab my assault rifle and hide it under my leather trench coat in its holster. I move to the front door and open it to reveal Charon, Dorian, Naes, and Kelly Marie. Yes, Kelly Marie. She has proven herself to me, and I made her a part of my crew.

  “We ready?” Charon asks.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply. It’s a line I’ve used ever sinc
e I heard that song from the group Talking Heads back in the mid 1980s.

  In a large room with all the technology one would need to accomplish anything technologically speaking, several of us now are interested in one section of all this technology. And that’s the world’s best tracking device. We view a screen that makes five different beeping noises for Vega’s five scientists we purposely allowed Vega to get back. Each of them have tracking devices inserted in their brains. They don’t even know they are there due to Djinn putting them there after he administered a sleep gas agent.

  Djinn is close to locking down on their exact position.

  He moves closer to the screen with excitement. “Three, two, one, and . . . bingo!” Djinn exclaims. “Vega’s HQ is in the Mariana Trench,” he continues.

  “I knew it!” I shout. I’ve known it all along.

  “Gerald, we must get a crew together immediately before Vega finds out we know. And he will.”

  He nods. “Djinn, make a precise map of the area within five minutes,” Mr. Herald tells him in an authoritative tone.

  “You got it, sir,” he replies to Mr. Herald.

  “Also, we’ll need readings from our deep sea penetrating radar to see what kind of security system Vega has in the trench,” he further says.

  “No problem, Mr. Herald,” Djinn replies.

  I gather Mr. Herald to come closer for more privacy. “Listen, we still don’t know for true if we have an Underworlder spy in our midst. We keep our attack on Vega’s headquarters a secret. Only the ones we truly trust and know can be reliable should know of this.”

  “The way you think, Harv, well, I feel you’ll be a Head one day. I agree with you.”

  Now I know why Vega showed up at the Golden Gate Bridge in a submarine. He must’ve enhanced its abilities to be able to dive to those depths and also the human scientists wouldn’t be crushed by the weight and power of the water.