Dead Harvest

23

The house was a shabby old duplex, white with blue trim. A length of narrow pipe, painted white, jutted from the concrete of the lowest porch-step and led upward to the covered porch above. The porch itself was chipped and weathered and littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans. Two doors, side by side, allowed entry to the house, and they were flanked by two mailboxes, each numbered by hand in black marker. One screen door sat crooked across its frame, its top hinge torn free of the jamb. It swayed lazily in the early morning breeze, creaking all the while.

Just above the rooftop hung a sky of navy blue, streaked with the dusky hues of an overripe peach — the beginnings of a beautiful sunrise. Truth be told, I barely noticed. I was mostly focused on the house — well, that and staying conscious — while the knife wound in my leg seemed content to spend its time bleeding through the towel I'd wrapped around it, throbbing like a son of a bitch all the while.

We were sitting on the darkened stoop of a pawnshop across the street, its barred windows chock-full of guitars, electronics, and the sundry other crap people'd seen fit to part with for a little quick cash. No gold, though, I noticed — just a patch of black velvet where I supposed it ought to go. I guess they kept that stuff in back. Made sense. Any neighborhood with a pawnshop probably ain't the kind of place you want to leave your jewelry unattended.

I'd been resting my head against the pawnshop door, and I suppose I must've dozed off, because my eyes flew open at the sound of Kate's voice. Startled, I jerked upright. The sudden muscle tension sent waves of searing pain down my leg, and up into my gut. A cold sweat broke out across my face, and I thought I was gonna puke. At least it did a number on the cobwebs.

"Jesus, Sam, are you all right? I thought I might've lost you there."

"I'm fine," I replied. "What'd you say?"

"I said we've got movement," Kate replied. "Second floor. Bedroom, it looks like."

"Left side or right?"

"Left," she said.

"Huh. Looks like I owe you a buck."

We sat in silence for a while as lights came on and off inside. After maybe fifteen minutes, the lights went out, and the left-hand door clanged open. A heavyset dude in a pair of dusky blue coveralls and a good week's worth of scruff stepped out onto the porch, shuffled down the stairs, and hopped into the rusted-out Chevy pickup that sat in the driveway. It was the pickup that had tipped me off, or rather the Department of Sanitation sticker that adorned its rear window. Good thing I'd spotted it, too — I'd barely managed the six or so blocks from the hospital parking lot on this bum leg of mine, and it was only a matter of time before the cops fanned out looking for us. All of which meant we needed to get the hell off the street, and fast. The way I figured it, a garbage man is the first guy out the door in the morning, which meant we'd just scored ourselves an empty apartment, and the luxury of busting in while the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep. Hell, it was practically Christmas. All we had to do was wait, and cross our fingers it wasn't our guy's day off.

Lucky for us, it wasn't. We watched him pull away, and as soon as his tail lights disappeared around the corner, we made our move. It was a slow, gimpy move, I'll admit — Kate helping me to my feet and supporting my weight as we crossed the street and scaled the porch steps — but it was the best that we could manage under the circumstances. Near as I could tell, there wasn't anyone awake for blocks to see us, anyway.

When we reached the door, I grabbed the jamb for support, and took a long, hard look at the lock. Just your garden-variety deal, damn near as old as the house itself, and no deadbolt, which was a relief. Still, I didn't have anything to pick it with, which meant we were gonna have to do this the hard way. I'm not sure which I relished less: the idea of trying to kick this thing in with a bum leg, or the attention the racket of doing so would attract. Still, it's not like we had a lot of options.

"Listen, Kate — here's what's gonna happen. I need you to grab hold of my left arm. I'm gonna give the door a swift kick with my good leg, and you've got to support my weight, you got me? It might take a couple kicks, so you've got to keep me up, OK? If I don't get the thing down quick, we're gonna wake half the neighborhood, and somebody's bound to call the cops. C'mon — we go on three."

But she just stood there, grinning at me. "What?" I snapped.

"You're really all about the hard way, aren't you?" Kate lifted the lid on the mailbox and reached a hand inside. After a moment of fishing, she pulled out a key. "I mean, seriously, were you even going to look?"

I mentally scrolled through a couple dozen witty rejoinders before settling on: "Just open the damned door."

She did, and once we were inside, she locked it behind us, setting the chain as well. The inside was at least as shabby as the outside. We were standing in a cramped living room, made all the more so by the oppressive green-brown of the carpet, and wood-paneled walls that seemed to press inward from all sides. The stench of spent cigarettes hung in the air. A thrift-store couch and easy chair were arranged around a TV that would've looked old when the Nixon hearings aired.

Kate dropped me into the easy chair and disappeared from sight, returning a moment later with an armful of supplies and a chipped glass half full of water. She dropped her payload on the couch, and handed me the glass. "Here," she said, shaking loose a handful of ibuprofen from the bottle she'd scored, "take these." I complied. "This place is a dump, by the way."

I said, "I've seen worse."

"Yeah? You may wanna check out the bathroom before you go making any claims like that. How long you figure we got here, anyway?"

"I dunno — eight hours, maybe nine?"

"We'd best get to it, then," she said. "C'mon, we've got to get you out of these pants."

I made no move to take them off. Kate just laughed. "Don't go all modest on me now, Sam. We've got to dress that wound, or you won't be going anywhere, and besides, this body isn't even yours."

Eventually, I acquiesced, undoing the belt I'd wrapped around my leg, and tossing the bloodied towel on the floor. I nearly dropped the belt as well, but Kate shook her head. "Unh-uh — you're gonna need that in a sec."

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."