The Harvest Cycle

by David Dunwoody

  West had everyone’s attention. With or without his doctorate he commanded them, inspired them. Amanda sat by his leg and hugged him.

  “Now, last year, the Forty-Ninth Harvest, came in late winter. Those cloisters out there are still new. They’re new and they’re fragile, I know this. I know it because of things I’ve seen. I know that the Harvesters, like the Others, have one hive mind.”

  West looked out over the faces of his people. They believed it too. They were willing to believe anything he could teach them in the light of this van in a cavern beneath the city Man had built.

  “That’s how they communicate with it...the one called Nightmare...that’s how they communicate with each other. And I have seen this link disrupted, in times when we were fleeing and fighting; I saw a grenade go off and it killed one of the Harvesters dead, blew it right up. But I also saw those around it, those far outside the range of the blast, stumbling and falling. I saw them die too, and for no reason other than that their brother went out like a light.

  “I believe that, if we can induce a major trauma - and I’m talking cataclysmic - among the cloisters, it will kill the Harvesters. At least in this region. At least.”

  Everyone was nodding, was understanding. Going with it. Hitch couldn’t believe it.

  “I happen to know of a naval base in what was California, in Humboldt County - a base they had just opened when the First Harvest happened. Thanks to my friend Hitch and his maps, I know that we’re about thirty-nine hours away from that base if the main roads are clear. That’s notwithstanding breaks and blocks and all the rest, but what I know is that NBHC has a cache of weapons that can cripple the Harvesters before their next run.”

  “What about the bots?” Someone shouted.

  “What about Gotham?”

  “If we can do this, then there’s no reason for them to threaten us, ever again!” West shouted. “This can be a new beginning for all of us! We can go back to the way things were before, don’t you see? Never another Harvest! Never another Harvest!”

  The crowd took up the cry. It filled the cavern and became a thundering force pushing them forward. Hitch watched faces change and souls light up, watched West and Amanda embrace, watched the Plan erupt into life.

  ***

  “We need a team. I’m thinking five of us.” West sat in the back of the van with Hitch.

  It was Hitch’s first time in the vehicle. The walls had been re-paneled and shelves installed, along with some cots. Looked like it would sleep five easy.

  “We want to keep our load light. Need every last drop of fuel,” West said. “We’ll need someone tough, someone who’s really been there, down in it with the bots and the Harvesters.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  “I mean a guy who stayed and fought. I mean Cutter.”

  “Cutter. Really.”

  “He’s a rough customer, but he’s not crazy. Strong as hell. I think he might have some military-slash-technical knowledge too, and I know I’m gonna need some help once we get to NBHC.”

  “So it’s decided that I’m on the crew?” Hitch asked.

  “It’s always been that way. C’mon.”

  “Me and you and Cutter.”

  “And Mandy.”

  Hitch brought his fist down hard.

  “She doesn’t need to be part of this.”

  “Actually, she does. Let me tell you why.”

  “Don’t fucking start Mike, we don’t need this--”

  “She’s been having some intense dreams,” West said quietly. “She thinks she might be touching that thing, out there...Nightmare.”

  “So you want to use her to keep tabs on the Harvesters, is that it?”

  “I’m not using her! She’s fully aware of her abilities and I think she wants to hone them.”

  “Why didn’t I ever hear of this?” Hitch spat. West shrugged. “It’s just...you know, as we approach the Plan date here and stress builds I think it opened her mind.”

  “Yes, you opened her mind.”

  “I didn’t say ‘I’, did I? Do we have to do this like fucking teenagers?”

  “No, it’s just that my passion and my vision never opened her up, never excited her. Then there’s this and...you really want me in this van with you two? You really think it’s good for the Plan, Mike?”

  “Yeah, I do.” West sighed. “This is work, important work. And we all work great together.”

  “Think Cutter’s gonna fit right in there?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “Who’s your fifth?”

  “If we need one...Buchanan really wants to come along. We’ve gone back and forth for a while now and he really thinks he’ll be an asset. We’ll be leaving this place without a leader, though. I mean, Joe will step in but I think Ira is just in it for the adventure.”

  “You like a little bit of adventure yourself,” Hitch said.

  “What the hell, we’ll need the extra set of hands.” West clapped Hitch on the back. “So let’s go talk to Cutter.”

  ***

  Cutter was a rough customer, all right, but not without reason.

  It had been the Year of the Forty-Second Harvest. Another winter Harvest, one in which Cutter had been traveling alone across the Midwest in search of a dreamer community. The last community he’d lived in had been crippled by the previous year’s Harvest, and their numbers were dwindling to nothing. There was nothing more he could do for them. It was time to save his own skin.

  He mostly traveled at night, though he’d begun braving the daylight, what with the harsh weather. The Harvesters and the possibility of their appearance had been the farthest thing from his mind; he was worried about undreamers, and about cannibals, those rumored few who had chosen to live above ground and who had lost their sanity in the process. If, that was, they’d been sane to begin with. He couldn’t imagine.

  One morning, sleeping in the remains of a cabin somewhere in rural Ohio, Cutter had been stirred by a noise, a noise that despite its subtlety carried above the howling winter winds and chilled him to the bone in a way that those winds could not.

  It was a gentle clinking noise, like wind chimes. It was the claws of the Harvesters.

  He’d heard it before, the previous year. The Harvesters, whose frenzied speed required a high metabolic rate, often rested after feeding on their victims. Huddled like gargoyles on rooftops and rocks, they sat quietly, the only sound their glassy, foot-long claws clinking together. Cutter believed it was a means of communication, seeing as the Harvesters never made a single sound with their mouths, never roared or screamed or grunted, even in the heights of their killing sprees. The chimes were a way of staying in contact with one another during their periods of sleep. And, if stirred, the chimes would suddenly stop, and their raw pink limbs would tense, and their milky-white, pupil-less eyes would snap open...

  Hearing the chimes now, Cutter slowly got to his feet and crept toward the nearest window. Snowflakes drifted down through the rotted ceiling and settled on the blanket draped over his shoulders. He reached down toward the floor and grabbed his rifle.

  He looked out upon a barren field, beyond which was a small forest. Not a sign of a single Harvester.

  Dammit, how long had they been out there, roaming the countryside? When had they risen from the sea to embark on another spree? How many times had he unwittingly come within miles - or less - of a gruesome death?

  Something moved in the trees.

  Cutter raised the rifle to his shoulder and watched, and waited.

  A Harvester emerged from the forest. It was moving slowly, with a slight limp. Wounded. He didn’t see any other sign of injury, but he knew he was right. And he knew the Harvester was alone.

  Then it saw him.

  Pushing itself along on tired legs, claws splayed, massive jaw unhinging to reveal rows of razor teeth, the Harvester came. It staggered across the field...then stopped.

  It fell to its knees. Planting its claws in the frozen earth, it began to pull
itself forward.

  Cutter took aim and, with fingers numbed by the cold, pulled the rifle’s trigger.

  A hunk of flesh tore itself away from the Harvester’s shoulder. The creature recoiled, but kept its claws buried in the soil and pulled itself upright again. It struggled forward.

  Cutter pulled the trigger again...the hollow click nearly stopped his heart.

  He had to have more ammo! He dropped the rifle and searched through his pockets. There, a few rounds. He painstakingly loaded the rifle, glancing out the window to see the Harvester making slow but steady progress toward the cabin.

  Cutter raised the rifle once more. “Come and get it, bastard. Come on!”

  He fired. The creature’s broad chest ruptured, its twin hearts thundering. But the bullet must have missed both, because the damned thing kept coming.

  “No!” Cutter cried, his own heart beating against his ribs. He fired again, wildly. Missed.

  He had one fucking bullet left. It had to be a head shot this time. He had to end it. And to be sure, he had to let the creature get as close as possible.

  Cutter fought to hold the rifle steady. He looked into the Harvester’s eyes. Don’t shoot till you see the whites of their eyes, he’d once heard. There was nothing but white in its eyes, a terrible pale emptiness.

  The creature pulled its claws free and summoned all the strength it had, limbs trembling. It prepared to leap at him.

  He fired.

  The Harvester’s left eye exploded, bits of flesh and skull flying out the back of its head, and it sank down into the snow without a sound.

  He didn’t leave the cabin for several days. He lay huddled under his blanket, arms wrapped around his useless rifle, and stared up through the roof at the snow-bleached sky.

  ***

  “You want me to come along on this suicide mission?” Cutter laughed at West. “What’d I ever do to you?”

  “It’s not a suicide mission,” West assured him. “I’ve taken everything into account, taken every possible precaution.”

  “And if the Harvesters come?”

  “Look, Cutter. I know what happened to you before you got here. I understand your fear.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Cutter snapped. “I’m just not a fool.”

  “This is our chance to be done with the Harvesters.”

  “And what about the undreamers? The bots? The cannibals? What are going to do about them?”

  “The hope is that those problems will solve themselves once we’ve done this.”

  “Yeah,” Cutter snorted. “I see you’ve got everything figured out.” Turning from West, he busied himself assembling torches in the firelight.

  Hitch stepped in. “Can I ask you something, Cutter?”

  “What’s that?”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  “Other than my head?” Cutter sighed. “Don’t be taken in by West’s bullshit. You really believe he can stop the Harvesters? Nightmare? You really think that, even if it was possible, Nightmare wouldn’t just send more?”

  “It’s worth a try,” Hitch said. “Anything’s worth a try in this Hell we live in.”

  “Excuse me? I thought you were content to sit down here and map the tunnels. Suddenly we’re in Hell?”

  “I-” Hitch looked at West. The doctor nodded.

  “I don’t want to live like this anymore,” Hitch said. “I can’t.”

  I can’t, because Amanda can’t.

  Cutter stared hard at Hitch, as if trying to read his thoughts. What he saw was truth.

  “What have I got to lose?” Cutter muttered. “This life isn’t a real life anyway.”

  5.

  Departures, Arrivals

  The van was loaded with torches, weapons, water and food, the meager amount of each that the community could muster. West got behind the wheel. Amanda sat beside him.

  In the back, Hitch sat with Cutter and Ira amidst the shelves and cots, along with a few old crates set against the rear doors. Cutter was going through their weapons inventory. “Not much, but it’ll do in the right hands.” He held his own two up and smiled. “I like your beard, Hitch. You keep it trim. Do well with the ladies?”

  Up front, West and Amanda busied themselves with the maps. Hitch shrugged. “Now and then.”

  “Everyone knows she traded up,” Cutter said softly, nodding toward the front. “Between you and me, you’re the better man. But they always want a hero.”

  “I’d rather not get into it.” Hitch glanced at Ira, who sat uncomfortably in the corner.

  The leader tried to speak up. “We’re all on the same team here, yes? We’ve been chosen for this because we’re the best at what we do. And we’ll work well together.”

  “From what I hear, you weren’t chosen at all.” Cutter smirked and went back to his work.

  The van started. It was a strange, unsettling feeling, machinery coming to life all around them. Hitch felt the engine’s rumbling in his legs and gut and he tried to settle back and look brave.

  Cutter continued picking through the weapons at his feet. Ira clasped his hands together. “This is it then, Doctor West? We’re off?”

  “We’re off,” West called, and the van began to move. The cheers shook its walls.

  ***

  By contrast, Jack DaVinci’s departure was very quiet.

  Only those closest to him knew what he was doing, what mission he was embarking on; they’d secured him a taxicab retrofitted with parts, and plenty of fuel. As well as ammo.

  He sat parked on the curb at State and Temple, watching a long-abandoned sewer reconstruction site that was the most likely place for the dreamers to exit with their vehicle.

  And they did. In the early hours of the morning, just before dawn, the van rolled out and climbed up onto the street and set off.

  Jack’s driving skills were a little rusty. Every couple of years he’d get out and go around the block in one of the few vehicles Gotham had. Nursing the gas now, Jack kept his lights off and allowed for plenty of distance between himself and the van.

  ***

  The laws the synthetics followed were few and simple. One of them stated: A robot may not harm humanity or, by inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.

  It was by this law that the synths determined that it was right and merciful to exterminate mankind before it was reaped by the Harvesters.

  Gotham was going to be difficult. A long-established community with plenty of resistance. Rumors of dreamers beneath.

  The undreamers believed that, by extracting the nanoplasmic cortex, they were saved from harm. Not so. Synths were programmed to understand God, understand the concept of the soul, and thereby understand that nanoplastomy meant a soulless life and one not worth living. For mankind to propagate itself in that state was as awful as existing in the clutches of Nightmare and his legions. It wasn’t living at all, was it? For this, the synths saw themselves as agents of mercy. Bruce, descending on Gotham, knew that the humans wouldn’t think so. He knew the fighting and begging and pleading was coming, and that they would never understand - though they had programmed him with full emotive capabilities, it would never override his logic.

  “How are you?” Bruce asked Macendale as they rumbled along in the back of the strike vehicle. Each had a dog at his side. The animals sat patiently, looking up at their masters.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You were conflicted over training paths re: the dogs. Positive versus negative reinforcement.”

  “No, I understand,” Macendale said. “They endear to respect and attention over fear. A shame we simply can’t apply logic.”

  “They do have their instincts,” Bruce said, “but what we require of them goes outside those boundaries.”

  “Do animals have souls?” Macendale asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bruce answered. “I suppose it’s a possibility. But then the Harvesters don’t express any interest in their dreams.”

  “Asleep last night,” Macendale s
aid, “my dog kicked and whimpered. It was dreaming. I let it continue until it subsided.”

  “That was likely best.”

  “I wonder what a dog would dream,” Macendale said. “Humans take scraps of thought and memory and assemble them into a scene. Do you think animals do the same?”

  “I would suppose,” Bruce said.

  “What would we dream?”

  “That I cannot answer.”

  “Gotham,” Delmar called from up front.

  Cinnamon sat across from them. Bruce had once asked her why not change her name. She didn’t understand the point. He supposed there was none, anymore.

  “I want another clean sweep,” Bruce shouted as the others prepped their weapons and the dogs began to murmur. “No hesitation.”

  They spilled into a reservoir on the edge of town, formations streaming into the sewers and spreading like ants. It wouldn’t be long before they found the first of the targets.

  Bruce and his mutt had the lead in the North Metro subway tunnel. Record all your targets, he communicated as he hopped down flights of stairs. There are approximately two hundred and fifteen in this location.

  He kicked down a steel door and caught the shoulder of an armed male on the other side. The man fell to the ground and took a round in his head before he could react.

  Target 1, male, head shot.

  Into the subway station, the platform converted to a common living area with the now-useless tracks as a system for workers and commuters. Three males and two females waking up on the platform, bleary-eyed under tarpaulins, weapons out of reach. Bruce gunned them down and, dropping into the tunnel, unleashed his dog. “Flush ‘em out, boy!”