Dead Harvest

by Chris F. Holm

  A few moments' struggle, and my tattered, bloodsoaked pants were just a crumpled mess on the threadbare carpet. The meat-suit, as it happens, was a briefs guy. Can't say at that moment I was psyched with his choice, but Kate was polite enough to pay it no mind.

  "Looks like that Bishop dude got you pretty good, but the bleeding's slowed at least. God knows where Anders' knife has been, though – I'm gonna have to disinfect the wound if you want this guy to last the week." I nodded. She snatched up a bottle of rubbing alcohol from her pile of supplies, and twisted free the cap. "You might want to bite down on that belt of yours – this is gonna sting a bit."

  That, as it turns out, was a bit of an understatement. I've been kicking around this world for going on ninety years – most of those damned – and I've gotta say, the ten or so seconds after the alcohol hit and before I blacked out were perhaps the most excruciating moments of my life. Every fucking muscle tensed at once, and I thrashed so hard, I thought this body might just tear itself apart. I clenched my eyes so tight I thought I was gonna pop 'em, and my teeth bit clean through the belt, even doubled over on itself as it was. Leather and blood mingled with the prickling scent of alcohol, and the roar of my pulse in my ears nearly drowned out my own tortured screams. And then, for a while, there was nothing.

  When I awoke, I was on the couch, my leg bound tight with gauze and duct tape and propped up on a mound of pillows, the wound throbbing dully in time with my pulse. Kate sat on the floor, eating a bowl of cereal by the pale glow of the television. The easy chair was gone; in its place sat a tangled mess of splintered wood and rent fabric, littered with tape and gauze and paper towels, the whole of which was streaked with blood.

  "Oh, good – you're up. You had me worried for a while, there."

  "What..." My tongue felt like it was filled with sand. "What happened to the chair?"

  "You sort of broke it when you started shaking. You're lucky you didn't hurt yourself any further. It wasn't easy dragging your ass to the couch, by the way – but I figured we had to get that leg elevated or it'd just keep on bleeding."

  "What time is it?"

  "Almost noon," she replied. "Speaking of, are you hungry? This guy doesn't have much that isn't growing fuzz, but there's cereal, and the milk's still good."

  "I'm not really very hungry," I replied. As I said it, though, I realized I was lying – my stomach was an empty, gnawing pit, and I couldn't remember the last time I had anything to eat. "On second thought, I think I will take some."

  Kate headed for the kitchen, returning with a heaping bowl of some God-awful looking pink-and-red marshmellowy concoction, floating atop a sloshing bit of milk. "What the hell is this?" I asked.

  "Franken Berry!"

  "I thought you said there was food."

  "Just eat it, it's good."

  I took one hesitant bite. I had to admit, it was pretty damn tasty. The second bite was a lot less hesitant. Before long, the bowl was empty, and I was feeling a whole lot better. My leg still ached like crazy, but the pain was of a more manageable sort, and thanks to the food, my head was clearing, and I could feel the strength returning to my abused limbs.

  For the first time since coming to, the television caught my attention. It was tuned to CNN, and the sound was down so low, I couldn't make out what they were saying. The image, though, was clear enough: a well-dressed woman, mic in hand, standing at the corner of Park and Forty-second, the massive pillars of Grand Central Terminal jutting skyward behind her. The street around her was littered with shards of glass and bits of debris, and behind her was a massive, open-sided tent overflowing with injured men, women, and children, all being tended to by uniformed EMTs. The great arched windows of the main concourse had been shattered, and the columns streaked with soot. Blackened bits of window frame twisted outward from the building like some horrible, creeping vine. Yellow police barriers set a perimeter around the station, and cops manned them at regular intervals, trying in vain to keep the throng of onlookers at bay. Nearest the building, three fire engines and a handful of smaller fire-and-rescue vehicles sat crookedly, half on, half off of the sidewalk. Scraps of singed paper tumbled through the frame like autumn leaves.

  "What happened there?" I asked.

  "Some kind of explosion," Kate said. "Terrorists, they think. All the networks are covering it."

  "Turn it up."

  "At least they've stopped showing my picture every five minutes, right?"

  "Kate, turn the TV up."

  The woman's voice filled the apartment. "… authorities still have no idea what motivated the attack – which has left twenty dead so far, and dozens more injured – but they believe that this man, seen entering the area moments before the blast, may have been involved." The image of the reporter was replaced with a still from a security camera of a trench-coated man of average height and weight, his features obscured as if by some odd, internal light. "Despite his apparent proximity to the detonation site, it appears the man may not have perished in the blast, as several eyewitnesses claim they saw him fleeing the terminal in the ensuing confusion. Authorities declined to comment at this time, pending further review of the security footage, but anyone who recognizes this man is urged to call…"

  But her words were lost to me. Instead, I was focused on the medical tent at the edge of the screen. A man, clearly dazed, had been stretchered into the tent, and was being examined by a doc at the scene. His tattered left arm draped awkwardly off the side of the stretcher, and his clothes were singed black, but otherwise he appeared intact.

  As his head lolled toward the camera, I had a flicker of recognition that confirmed what I'd been worried about since the scene first caught my eye.

  "Christ," I said, "it's already begun."

  "What, Sam?" Confusion twisted Kate's features into a scowl. "What's begun?"

  "War."

  24.

  "Get your things," I said. "We're going."

  "Sam, what the hell are you talking about? Where, exactly, are we going?"

  "There," I said, nodding toward the TV.

  "Are you out of your mind? Set aside the fact that you just lost a lot of blood, and shouldn't be going anywhere but to bed – half the cops in the city are there!"

  "Half the cops, sure, and every looky-loo in town. You really think they're gonna notice two more?"

  I dragged my ass off of the couch and limped over to the TV set, clicking it off. My leg hurt like a motherfucker, and set my teeth on edge, but the bandages held. It'd get me where I needed to go.

  "C'mon, Sam, you're in no shape–"

  "This isn't a debate, Kate. We're going."

  "But why?"

  "Because we need answers, and there's someone there who just might be able to give them to us. Besides, it's not like we've got any other leads. It's this or nothing, Kate, and if we do nothing, it's just a matter of time before they catch up with us."

  She nodded, and snatched her leather jacket up off of the floor. "You know you can't go out looking like that, right? I mean, you're gonna need some clothes."

  She was right, of course. Thanks to the mess Kate made dressing my wound, my shirt was once more bloodied, and my pants I'd left in tatters on the floor. I hobbled toward the staircase in search of our unwitting host's bedroom. Kate ran to my side, a steadying hand on my elbow, but I shrugged her off. She retreated, just a step or two, and watched with trepidation as I gingerly scaled the stairs.

  The bedroom wasn't any nicer than the living room, and a quarter the size – just enough room for the musty, unmade bed and a small dresser. A door on one wall opened to a small bath. I peeled my soiled shirt off and headed to the bathroom, splashing some water on my face and drinking from cupped hands, before returning to the bedroom in search of fresh clothes. In the middle drawer of the dresser I found a rumpled flannel shirt, and in the bottom drawer, a pair of baggy, paint-stained jeans. I dressed quickly, cinching the jeans tight with a belt left atop the dresser. I tucked the lone ceramic cat-shard into my
shirt pocket, and then it was back down the stairs, toward Manhattan, and toward our fates.

  I had to admit, she looked fantastic. The nausea that had plagued her in the early weeks of the trial had abated, and the color had returned to her cheeks. No longer just the pricks of red over a backdrop of gray that screamed "lunger" to anyone who saw them – they were now a warm golden hue that highlighted the dusting of freckles across her nose and reminded me why I'd fallen in love with her to begin with. And her appetite had improved as well; I watched with amazement as she plowed her way through a plate of ham and eggs, delivered to her bedside by one of the team of nurses that tended to the thirty-odd patients in the study. I had to hand it to Dumas – whatever they were giving her was working.

  "Strep-toe-my-sin," she said when I had asked, enunciating each syllable as though she'd memorized them individually. "Not terribly catchy, is it? I mean, you think they'd call it Tubercu-Cure or some such, wouldn't you? But anyway, they seem to think it's working – they say another month of treatment, and I'll be cured, can you believe it? Cured!"

  "That's fantastic, love," I said, but my thoughts were elsewhere, a fact that wasn't lost on Elizabeth.

  "They did warn me, though, that there are side effects," she said.

  "Yeah?" I said, barely hearing her.

  "They say I may grow a trunk and hooves."

  "Huh."

  "Seriously, Sam, where are you today?"

  "Nowhere – forget it."

  "It's this new job of yours, isn't it?"

  "What? No, of course not."

  I was lying, of course. This past month, Dumas had run me ragged, calling at all hours of the night to tell me he had a package to deliver, a client to entertain, a customs agent who needed a little paying off. Between the insane hours and the knowledge of what I was doing, I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and there was no doubt the job was taking its toll on my marriage, as well – I'd been nothing but short-tempered and distant for weeks.

  "Sure," Elizabeth said. "Fine. When's the last time you had something to eat? I could talk to the nurse, have her grab a plate for you as well."

  "I'm not hungry."

  "You've been saying that for weeks. Have you seen a mirror recently? You're skin and bones, Sam. You need to start taking better care of yourself; after all, I've got to have a husband left to come home to, don't I?"

  "Just leave it be, would you? I said I wasn't hungry."

  Elizabeth fell silent for a moment, surprised by the sudden venom in my tone. Then she put a hand on my forearm and gave it a squeeze. "You know, I've got half a mind to give this Dumas a call and quit for you right now."

  "You'll do no such thing," I said, anger once more creeping into my voice.

  "I know we need the money, Sam, but honestly, no job is worth this. I never see you anymore, and when I do, we always bicker. I just want you to be happy is all. I just want to have my husband back."

  "You want your husband back? Damn it, Liz, can't you see I'm doing this for you? For us?"

  "But what's the point, if there's barely an us left to do it for?"

  "You don't know what you're talking about," I said.

  "Maybe not," she said, "but I do know you. And I know that whatever's going on, it's eating you alive. Don't try to argue – it's written all over your face. So push me away all you like. I'm your wife – it's my job to worry about you. And right now, it's your job I'm worried about."

  "Look, I just got to stick with it a little while longer, OK? When you come home, I promise I'll quit, and then maybe we'll start over someplace new."

  "I wish I understood the hold this job has over you," she said. I said nothing.

  Just then, a nurse came trotting over from the nurses' station, her flats clattering against the institutional tile floor. "Mr Thornton?" she asked. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your visit, but there's a Mr Dumas on the phone for you. He says it's urgent."

  Elizabeth shot me a look I chose to ignore. "You should let him wait," she said.

  "Damn it, Liz, you know I can't."

  "I don't know any such thing," she said. And then, with a sigh: "Fine. Go. But first, a kiss."

  She leaned toward me, expectant. I pecked her absently on the forehead and made for the nurses' station.

  "Hey!" Elizabeth called.

  "Yeah?"

  "I love you!"

  "Yeah. Me too. Listen, Liz, I gotta go – I really shouldn't keep him waiting."

  I turned and left, then, leaving nothing but silence behind.

  The trip from the apartment to Grand Central took us damn near three hours. The ferry terminal was a mess – National Guardsmen in full camo manned security checkpoints, frisking every passenger before boarding, and slowing the line to a crawl. What's worse, the city'd suspended all subway service north of Thirtythird, which meant a nine-block hike against a bitter northern wind. By the time we arrived, my leg wound had begun to seep, and a cold, acrid sweat had broken out across my face and chest.

  The scene itself was one of utter panic. Nothing I'd seen on TV had prepared me for its scope. The streets were flush with people – many fleeing, although most, like us, pushed ever closer to the terminal. News choppers thudded overhead, and over their incessant din I heard a woman shrieking for her child, while behind her, a street preacher atop a milk crate shouted that the end was near. Since we'd left the apartment, a portion of the terminal's roof had collapsed, sealing shut the southern entrance to the station. Rescue workers struggled to clear the debris and reach those still trapped inside, while just outside the perimeter, the city pressed close – watching, waiting. The sheer volume of people had halted traffic for blocks before we'd even reached the barricades, and dozens of car horns sounded again and again in a futile attempt to break the jam.

  We shoved our way through the crowd, me in the lead, and Kate trailing behind, her left hand gripped tightly in my right. Though the fire had long been out, thick dark smoke still poured out of the ruined windows of the terminal and hung over the crowd like an impending storm. The afternoon light was reduced to a trickle, and the acrid smoke burned my eyes, my nose, my throat. With every face that passed, I felt a flutter of anticipation, and I scanned them all in turn – each time dreading that flicker of recognition that would mean that we'd been made. I kept telling myself that there was no way for Bishop to know where we'd gone, that he was probably half a city away, but it did nothing to stop my heart from thudding in my chest, nor to quell the anxious tremors in my hands.

  A knee connected with my injured thigh, and I stumbled. Pain radiated outward from the wound in nauseating waves, and my vision went dim. Eventually, I got my feet back under me, and we continued through the crowd, but my leg was once more slick with blood, and my head grew foggier with each mutinous heartbeat.

  The barriers were a surprise. One moment, the crowd seemed to go on forever, and the next, I was expelled into a sawhorse with enough force that I nearly toppled over it. Kate's hand slipped free of my sweatslick grasp, and I teetered for a moment, doubled over the grimy, yellow thing – my feet no longer touching street, my fingertips just inches from the pavement on the other side. A uniformed hand grabbed a fistful of my shirt, none too gently, and hoisted me upright.

  "Easy, mac," said the cop. "Where the hell you think you're going?"

  I confess that in my dazed and injured state, I didn't really have an adequate reply. Turns out, I didn't need one.

  "My uncle, he's hurt. From the blast, I mean. He was walking past when it happened, and I think he mighta caught some shrapnel or whatever. It won't stop bleeding."

  I stared at Kate for a moment like she had a second head. Then I broke into a smile when I realized what she was doing. Kate nudged me, her face set in a scowl. I followed suit, replacing my smile with a grimace of pain that wasn't just for show. The cop didn't see any of that, though – he was staring at my blood-soaked jeans.

  "All right, come on," he said, yanking the barrier aside enough to admit both Kate and me.
<
br />   Between the two of them, they managed to wrestle me to the medical tent, one under each arm, with my bum leg trailing out behind. For a while, I tried to hop along, but by then even my good leg was pretty shaky, and I think I was more hindrance than help. They dropped me onto a stretcher, soot-smudged and flecked with blood, and the cop disappeared into the fray to find a medic.

  "That was some good thinking back there," I said, once the cop was out of earshot. I couldn't help but notice I was slurring my speech.

  Kate replied, "Thanks."

  I tried to swing my legs off of the stretcher, but I wasn't having much luck. "Help me get off of this thing, would you?"

  "Sam, I'm not sure that's the best idea. I mean, your leg's in lousy shape – you might want to let them take a look at it."