Dead Harvest

by Chris F. Holm

  It was only then that I turned my attention outside. The horizon wobbled wildly, the Manhattan skyline racing by. I kicked Bishop aside, as much out of anger as necessity, and then climbed into the pilot's seat. Before me was a whole mess of stuff I didn't have the first idea how to use. I started with the joystick-looking thingy between my knees, yanking it upward in an attempt to halt our descent – after all, it always worked in the movies.

  In real life, not so much. The helicopter skittered backward, still plummeting, and the cant of the cabin was so bad that if the door had been open, Kate would've rolled clean out. Sheer instinct made me slam on the left-hand pedal at my feet, but this was a chopper, not a Buick, and the spinning worsened. I tried the other pedal, and our rotation slowed – not much, but it was encouraging nonetheless. Not so encouraging were the rooftops we were fast approaching.

  The only option left was the emergency brake – at least, that's what it looked like to me. We were maybe twenty feet above the high-rises of Midtown when I closed my eyes and yanked the lever. I waited for our imminent collision, and when it didn't come, I cautiously opened one eye. The bird was still spinning like a top, and she shook like she was six shots into an espresso binge, but I'll be damned if we weren't holding altitude. For the first time since we'd started falling, I had the feeling we might just get out of this alive.

  That's when Bishop hit me.

  I later realized that it had been a fire extinguisher. At the time, I thought it was a freight train. Whatever it was, it bounced off the crown of my skull and knocked me out of my seat. The chopper jerked, and once more began to descend. I shook the cobwebs from my head and made for the up-lever. Bishop leapt atop me, hands scrabbling to find purchase around my neck. His hand pressed against my face, and I shook free, biting down hard on the meat of his thumb. Then I dug my nails into the furrowed flesh of his forearm, and he shrieked in pain and rage.

  I tossed him off of me, and scrambled to the lever. Buildings whooshed past us just inches from our blades as we descended below the skyline, Sixth Avenue sixty yards beneath us. I felt a hand on my leg, pulling me backward – away from the lever. I held fast for a moment, but it slipped from my grasp, and I tumbled backward.

  Bishop, surprised by the sudden lack of resistance, released my leg and slid backward toward the rear of the cabin. For a moment, he eyed Kate's unconscious form, and then I was on him, grabbing his helmet by the sides and slamming it into the cabin floor, again and again until he moved no more. I hoped that this time, he'd stay down – I'd had quite enough of killing innocent vessels. Their lives were a mighty steep price, no matter the stakes.

  Of course, if I couldn't stop us from crashing, any debate over killing the pilot was gonna be kind of moot.

  I scampered back to the pilot's seat while the street rushed upward to meet us. Forty yards, thirty. The chopper spun still, and I watched horrified as, beneath us, Sixth Avenue erupted into chaos: cars were abandoned as their drivers fled, pedestrians trampled one another in a desperate attempt to get away; a cab leapt the curb and launched headlong into a sausage cart. Twenty yards, ten. Behind me, Kate raised her head, her mutter of confusion becoming a frightened wail as she realized we were going down. I gripped the up-lever with all I had and yanked it backward, just moments from impact.

  The chopper began to rise.

  The street receded beneath us, but we weren't out of the woods yet. Still we hurtled forward, the helicopter spinning wildly, and no amount of my slamming on the pedals at my feet seemed to change that. Sixth Avenue, so broad and impressive in my youth, was suddenly the eye of a needle – it was all I could do not to slam into the massive buildings that jutted skyward to either side. To make matters worse, thick black smoke billowed from our tail, blanketing the street, while on the control panel, a dozen alarms flashed and chimed. I didn't know exactly what they meant, but I was pretty sure I caught the gist: no matter what I did, we weren't long for the sky.

  One of our skids caught on a street light, and the helicopter shuddered. I jerked the joystick aside, nearly careening into one of the buildings that whizzed past on my right. The skid clattered, useless, to the street below. A moment later, the street light followed, slamming down atop an abandoned Lincoln Town Car in a flurry of sparks and broken glass.

  At the far end of the cabin, Bishop or our pilot stirred. Kate didn't wait to find out which of them was driving – she clocked him full-swing with the same fire extinguisher he'd used to hit me. He went down in a tangle of limbs, out this time for sure.

  The chopper swung wildly now from right to left, and there was only so much I could do to correct. We were maybe twenty feet above the street, but we were barreling along too fast to simply jump – and besides, if we abandoned the bird now, she was gonna wind up rearranging some real estate, not to mention killing dozens. But as the familiar Art Deco façade of the RitzCarlton loomed large over us and I caught a glimpse of the sea of greenery beyond, I had me an idea.

  We were gonna land in the park.

  OK, land might've been too generous a term, what with a non-pilot at the stick and one of our skids a few hundred yards behind us, but still, if I could slow her down enough and drop her somewhere soft, maybe we could walk away from this OK. At least, that's what I would have been thinking had my thoughts not been preoccupied by a silent mantra of oh shit oh shit oh shit. With the chopper threatening to shake itself apart, and the joystick unresponsive, that last block and a half was one tough needle to thread.

  Without warning, we kicked sideways. Behind us, a latticework of scaffolding buckled where our blades had torn through it, and collapsed to the pavement beneath. The helicopter pitched and tumbled like a rowboat in a hurricane, and there was nothing left for me to do.

  One way or another, this bird was going down.

  27.

  The chopper shook so badly that my vision blurred and the horizon was rendered indistinct, but still I gripped the joystick between my knees, struggling with all I had to keep the chopper on course. Even in the best of circumstances, there was no way in hell I was gonna land this thing smoothly, but minus one skid, and with the controls unresponsive, I figured my only shot was to drop us in some water. Even then, I didn't know if we'd survive.

  We rocketed over the intersection of Sixth and Central Park South, and the buildings of Midtown dropped away. The treetops of the park scraped against the underside of the helicopter like the scrabbling of some unholy scavengers, eager to partake of the tasty morsels within. I tried my damnedest to gain a little altitude, but the scrabbling continued. It looked like we were out of up.

  I considered my options. The reservoir was damn near two miles away – no way were we gonna stay up that long. Besides, the reservoir is huge – even if I brought her down OK, we'd likely drown before we reached the shore. The lake was a better bet – a little closer, a little shallower – but still, I didn't see this bucket getting that far. That left the pond. Plenty close, if a bit shallow for my liking. Would a few feet of water be enough to cushion our impact? I suddenly found myself wishing I'd done a little better in physics as a kid – or, failing that, that I'd taken it more recently than seventy-odd years ago.

  Oh, well, I thought – only one way to find out.

  I yanked the joystick to the right. The chopper banked. She lost a little altitude as well, and a maelstrom of leaves and branches raged around us. I caught a glimpse of shimmering water just ahead before the chopper plunged entirely below the tree line, and then I saw nothing but green.

  There was nothing left to do but pray.

  We emerged from the canopy like a slug from a barrel, our rotor twisted and unmoving above us, our landing skids both certainly gone. The cabin tilted, and I fell from the pilot's seat, slamming hard into the window beside me. Through it, I saw the water rise to meet us, and then a murky nothing as it engulfed us in a roar of surf and a screech of rending metal. And then my forehead met the windshield, and the world went dark.

  The gun was a dull,
ugly affair, all scuffed and gray and worn. A tiny little revolver with a nasty snub nose and a peeling leather grip, it had the look of a featherweight boxer gone to seed. I hefted it in my hand, marveling at its weight. Then I extended my arm outward, lining the sight up with the clock that sat behind a wire cage just a few feet above the countertop.

  "Whoa, pal, that iron's hot! Do me favor and maybe don't go ventilating my shop, huh?"

  I looked at him and set the gun down on the counter. He was a wiry guy of maybe forty, with beady close-set eyes and nervous hands, which at the moment were tapping out a jaunty number on the countertop. He wore a pair of baggy wool trousers, held up by a set of suspenders over a greasestained T-shirt. Except for me and him, the hock shop was empty. I looked him up and down, and wondered was he always this nervous, or was it my sparkling personality that had him on edge. Then again, I guess it coulda been the gun.

  "You always keep 'em loaded?" I asked.

  "No, not always. But guys like you, they come in wantin' a piece, I've found it ain't wise to keep 'em waiting."

  "What do you mean, guys like me?"

  "You know," he said, looking suddenly uncomfortable, "guys like you. Made guys."

  So that's what I'd become? A made guy? My friend here said it with such reverence it made me want to puke.

  "So how much?"

  "For you? Twenty-five bucks."

  "That seems a little steep."

  The drumming on the counter sped up a bit. The guy looked a little green. "Hey, that thing's got no serial, no history. That's a good deal I'm giving you – Scout's honor."

  I looked him up and down. "You were a Boy Scout?"

  "Hey, we've all been something we ain't anymore, you know what I mean?"

  Yeah, I knew what he meant. I tossed some bills down on the counter and stuffed the gun into my pants pocket.

  "There's thirty here," he said.

  "Keep it," I replied. I left him grinning like an idiot behind the counter as I left the shop and stepped out into the cool September night.

  On the street, I hailed a cab, and told the cabbie the corner of Whitehall and Bridge. I was headed to the Alexander Hamilton U.S. Custom House, where I was to exchange the envelope in my pocket for another that I'd deliver to Dumas later tonight. The envelope in my pocket was full of cash. God knows what was in the other one. Documents, I'd guess – the kind of documents that could slap a veneer of legitimacy on whatever illegitimate shit Dumas was bringing in through the harbor. Or maybe they were raffle tickets. Truth be told, I didn't care.

  This wasn't the first time I'd made the customs run for Dumas, or even the fifth, and every time it was the same. This time of night, the building was pretty quiet. My contact would meet me at the service entrance around back. We'd make the exchange and go our separate ways – no fuss, no mess, no complications.

  So if everything was roses, why'd I need the heater? Because like I said, every time it was the same. Make the swap, bring the papers to Dumas. Always a spot of his choosing, always far from prying eyes. The only difference was, this time he was gonna get a little lead along with his envelope.

  I wasn't happy with the thought of it, but I'd gone over it a thousand times, and every time, the outcome was the same. Elizabeth's program ended in just under a week, but she'd been off the drugs for days – the docs just wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't relapse. Once she was out, Dumas and I were done, at least to my mind. But when I'd broached the topic to him, he just laughed and shook his head. "Hate to have you get her home all healthy, just to have her take a nasty spill," he'd say, eyes dancing with mischief all the while. Always friendly, jovial – like he thought that it was cute. But I meant to get out, and if he didn't mean to let me, then I was gonna have to find another way.

  The Custom House was an imposing Federal structure, six stories of cold granite overlooking Battery Park, and New York Harbor beyond. I set fire to a cigarette and made my way to the service entrance. Three cigarettes' wait, and the exchange went off without a hitch. My hands trembled with anticipation as I handed over the envelope, but if my contact noticed it, he didn't let on. The envelope he handed me, I folded, and stuffed into my pocket. For maybe the hundredth time, I thought myself a fool for going through with the swap, when I could've just taken the money and used it to help us disappear once the deed was done. But even if I could stomach taking it, the people it belonged to weren't likely to let its disappearance slide, and that'd result in a whole lot of the wrong kind of attention for me. No, it was best for me if they thought the hit and this transaction had nothing to do with one another. If that meant Elizabeth and I fled broke, then that was just how it had to be.

  The walk across Battery Park seemed to take forever. My nerves were jangling, my knee was killing me, and despite the chill breeze that blew in across the harbor, my hands and neck were slick with sweat. Dumas and I were to meet at the entrance of the old fort. Designed to protect the harbor from the British navy in the War of 1812 but never once seeing battle, it now sat squat and lifeless beneath a starless sky. A little more exposed than I'd have liked to be, but I've since learned these things rarely go as smoothly as I'd like.

  Dumas was chomping on an unlit cigar when I arrived. "Evening, Sammy," he said, though the words were garbled by the fact that he never removed the cigar from his mouth. "I trust you got something for me?"

  "Yeah," I said. I thrust my hands into my pockets, producing the envelope from my left and handing it to him. My right hand stayed in my pocket, wrapping tight around the gun grip.

  "You all right? You don't look so hot."

  I laughed, cold and bitter. "Truth is, I don't feel so hot," I said. "But I think things are looking up."

  "Yeah? Why's that?"

  I wanted to have something cool to say to that. Something bad-ass. Something that let Dumas know that I was done playing the patsy for him. But when I opened my mouth, the words just wouldn't come.

  Dumas cocked his head, eyeing me with sudden suspicion. "Sammy, what the hell is going on?" Then I pulled the gun, and he knew exactly what was going on.

  I stepped in close. Grabbed him by the collar, shoved the gun into his gut. One, two, three, and it was done. His body muffled the reports, but still my ears rang. I didn't have long before the bulls arrived. I let go of him, then, watched him slump to the ground, eyes wide and blank and dead. Three blooms of red spread out across his chest. So much blood. I looked down at my hands, and they were spattered with it – that and gunpowder burns. The gun fell, forgotten from my hands. I stood trembling in the chill night air, tears stinging my cheeks. I thought that once the deed was done, I'd feel relief, but I didn't – I just felt sick. Sick and hollowed-out.

  It felt like an eternity, standing there, looking down at the body at my feet, but really, it couldn't have been more than a few moments. I was shaken from my reverie by the sound of sirens, distant but approaching. I should have thought to take the gun. I should have thought a lot of things. But the truth is, I didn't think anything at all. I just ran.

  Problem is, some things, you just can't run from.

  When I came to, my head was throbbing. By the digital readout on the console, I'd been out less than a minute, but it felt more like a week. For a moment, I didn't move, didn't blink – I just lay there, still as death, so spent was I by our mad flight across Manhattan, not to mention our sudden descent. My everything hurt, but the way I figured it, that meant my everything was still attached, so that wasn't all bad news. In the sudden absence of the helicopter's droning wail, the cabin was so quiet I wondered briefly if I'd been struck deaf. Then I heard a low groan from the back of the cabin, and I realized my ears, at least, were fine.

  The groaning was coming from Kate, who lay prostrate atop our pilot. It seemed he'd cushioned her impact, because she looked pretty much in one piece, if a bit dazed. There was a welt above her right eye from when she'd slammed into the ceiling, and blood ran freely from a scrape on her chin, but when my eyes met hers, s
he smiled.

  Our pilot had not fared so well. He was still out, and his leg was bent beneath him in a manner not possible given the usual number of joints and bones. His face was a swollen, bloody mess, and his bullet-grazed forearm had soaked through the fabric of his flight suit. Looking at him, I wanted to feel anger at Bishop for forcing me to hurt that man, or horror at what I'd done; I wanted to feel regret for having put the pilot in this position in the first place. I wanted to feel those things because they would have given me something of my past life to hold on to, something human and decent and kind. Mostly, though, I just felt tired.

  "Ugh," Kate said, rolling off of the pilot and collapsing against the cabin wall that now served as the floor. "That sucked. Next time you steal a vehicle, make sure it's one you know how to drive, OK?"

  "I didn't steal it – I hijacked it. There's a difference. And I don't think you 'drive' a helicopter."

  "I think it's pretty clear you don't."