The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s go with that.”

  “Kinda sounds like an orgasm gone horribly wrong.”

  She snorted. “Jesus, you’re a child. I dunno, the light stuff can actually be kind of soothing once you get used to it, but it gets pretty intense when I cut loose.”

  He gave her a wolfish grin. “You’re not really disproving the comparison.”

  There was no avoiding it: anything she said at that point could and would be used against her in a court of bad innuendoes.

  Al cleared his throat, despite presumably not having one. “Is it dangerous? Channeling more energy than you’re equipped to handle?”

  “So I hear,” she said. “I passed out once when my eyes were bigger than my battery, so to speak, but apparently people have died from that kind of thing before. Hearts giving out and such.”

  “It just gets better and better.” Jarek said.

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “So your mom,” he said. “Was that before the Catastrophe?”

  She stiffened and mentally cursed as she realized she’d started rubbing at her left forearm with her thumb. She occupied her hands with packing up the pieces of the new catcher. With the engraving done, the next steps would require careful focus, and she clearly wasn’t going to find that here.

  He held his hands up. “Whoa! It’s okay. Forget I asked.”

  “Sorry, I just—”

  “I get it.” He shifted to bring his legs up on the bench and rest his back against the wall. “We should try to get some sleep. Why don’t you take my bed for a couple hours?”

  She arched an eyebrow at him.

  He held up his hands. “No funny business. You know, unless you’re asking for it.”

  She held his gaze, searching for her retort. Seconds passed. Why didn’t he look away? Why didn’t she? What did it say about her that his eyes drew her like magnets even after she’d seen him cut half a dozen throats last night?

  It didn’t matter. Whatever awful ideas her libido might have, she would stomp them out like the destructive pests they were. Besides, she had work to do, work that she might actually get done if he’d shut up and go sleep on his cot.

  “I’m not stealing your sorry excuse for a bed,” she said. “I can rough it just as well as you.”

  “I dunno, I like it pretty rough.”

  “It never ends with you, does it?”

  He nestled his head against the back corner of the cockpit and closed his eyes. “It always ends with me.”

  It didn’t sound like a cute joke.

  She studied the lines of his face. What was he talking about? Banter? Relationships? Or something else entirely? Something told her it was the latter. The demons he must be carrying on his back—

  He opened one eye. “Go. Sleep.”

  She shook her head and turned back to the beginnings of the catcher on the bench in front of her. “Take the cot, you chauvinist pig. I have work to do.”

  He smiled but made no sign of moving.

  “Much as I hate to interrupt,” Al said. “I thought you two might like to know that we’ll be encountering some turbulence ahead.”

  She suppressed a dark urge to laugh.

  If only Al could tell her something she didn’t know.

  13

  Deadwood, South Dakota, was the alleged birthplace and long-time home of Alaric Weston and, according to Pryce, the one place the man would’ve run to after the metaphorical shit had hit. Studying the town in front of him, Jarek could see why. By all appearances, Deadwood was a charming, thriving little town. That wasn’t something people got to say much these days.

  At the time of the last pre-Catastrophe census, Deadwood’s population had been about fifteen hundred. Who knew how those numbers had held up over the past fifteen years, but enough homes and stores and cars looked in good repair down there for him to believe Deadwood had simply gone on living in its cozy little mountain valley.

  Michael and Rachel plodded down the boarding ramp behind him.

  They both looked tired, even though Michael had slept straight through the entire flight.

  Jarek had woken long enough to (unnecessarily) direct Al to set the ship down on the southern crest nestled between the two forks of the Y-shaped valley in which Deadwood had been built. After that, he’d grabbed a few more hours of sleep before coming out to scout.

  Rachel had still been blearily, stubbornly awake when he’d risen the first time. He’d felt some small satisfaction to find her curled up in his cot when he’d woken the second time, but judging from the pallor in her face, she must’ve risen to get back to her enchanting since Jarek had left the ship. Or maybe she was just that tired.

  “How’s it look?” Michael said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “Oddly intact,” he said, “except for the fact that I haven’t seen a single damn person for the past half hour.”

  There’d been a bustle of activity in the streets below when he’d first risen to look, but it hadn’t lasted long. Everyone had seemed to be headed to—

  “Church,” Michael said. “It’s Sunday.”

  Son of a bitch. Of course he hadn’t thought of that. Attending church had become a dangerous practice in most places once the marauders caught on that Sunday services made easy targets. But up here in the mountains, far removed from what population hot spots remained, it made sense.

  “Where were you on that one?” he murmured softly.

  Al made a sniffing sound in his earpiece. “Perhaps if I had proper eyes out there and wasn’t relying on your hodgepodge scouting report, sir.”

  Reason 5,093 they needed to get Fela back.

  Now that he was closer, Michael’s dark features looked reserved but not overtly unfriendly. Nothing like a beauty sleep to cure a bad case of the mopes.

  “Church, sure. Good call, choirboy.”

  Michael reached for Jarek’s binoculars. “There’s no winning with you, is there?”

  “Nope!” He handed Michael the binoculars and turned to Rachel. “You look like you need a cookie.”

  She gave a noncommittal grunt by way of reply.

  “Touché.”

  He pushed past her to walk back to the ship and went to the locker in his cabin. He patted the giant blade of the Big Whacker affectionately, and then he withdrew his black synthetic gun belt from his box of goodies and strapped it on, drawing the holster straps snug on his thighs. His trusty old Glocks and a couple of extra mags were still loaded in the belt from last night, but he grabbed a third pistol and an additional mag for Michael.

  Before shutting the locker, he paused, gazing thoughtfully first at the firearms on his person and then at the smaller sword resting in the vertical space inside the locker. They were just going to talk . . .

  Ah, hell, how often did that work out? Plus, his ammo stockpile wasn’t going to last forever.

  He slung the sword over his shoulder, closed the locker, and went to join the others.

  Outside, Rachel eyed his armaments dubiously, her eyes lingering on the hilt of the sword. It was a good blade, one of his favorites—formed from a single piece of steel with a straight, medium-length blade and a no-frills hilt wrapped tightly with thin green paracord for grip and thickness. It had been a gift of sorts from Pryce shortly after they’d met.

  Michael’s eyes widened in surprise or maybe horror when he turned and got a good look. “Dude, we’re not looking to pick a fight here! And a sword? Seriously? Why?”

  Jarek offered Michael the extra pistol and mag. “You’re the one who was harping on being prepared. I have a sword because people tend to think twice before poking guys who walk around with swords strapped to their backs. Plus”—he raised his hands in a shrug—“they don’t run out of bullets. And I might need to cut someone.”

  “Ten minutes in Deadwood, and he thinks he’s a rootin’-tootin’ cowboy ninja,” Rachel said from behind them.

  “Sweetheart, you have no idea. Whoops, that’s a slip on the S word there—force of h
abit.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He drew one of his pistols halfway from its holster. “Did you, uh, want one of these fellas? I have one more in there.”

  She frowned at the pistol and hefted her staff. “I think I’m better off with this here whackin’ stick, cowboy. Doesn’t run out of bullets either.”

  He gave the hilt of his sword an affectionate pat. “Can’t beat that. And you two are all magically bulletproofed now, I assume?”

  A dark look crossed her face. “About that.”

  She pulled the small, glyph-etched metal disk of her bullet catcher off the back of her belt, checked the dial on its surface, and offered the device to Michael. “I want you to keep this on you until I finish yours.”

  Michael stuck the pistol and extra mag into his pockets and took the disk. After a few seconds inspecting it and a glance at Rachel, comprehension spread across his dark features. “That wasn’t you stopping those bullets back at the Fortress? It was this thing?”

  She nodded. “I’ve been playing with that prototype for a while now. Turns out it actually works.”

  “Wow, Rache.” He looked at the device in his hands. “This is amazing! But I can’t take it”—he offered the catcher back—“not when you might need it.”

  She pushed the little disk back toward Michael and waved her staff. “I have other ways, if it comes to that.”

  Michael stared at the device, unconvinced.

  “Shit,” Jarek said, “I’ll take it if you won’t, Mikey. I think it’s your turn to get shot, anyways.”

  Rachel glared at him while Michael shrugged, slid the catcher onto his belt, and pulled his shirt down over it. It made Jarek’s own backside feel woefully vulnerable.

  Reason 5,094 they needed to get Fela back.

  “Man,” Jarek said, kicking at a tuft of wild grass. “When do I get one?”

  Rachel shot him a wolfish grin. “Convince me I don’t want you getting shot.”

  He ran his hands along the front of his body as if presenting a particularly breathtaking piece of art. “You’re telling me this isn’t reason enough?”

  She snorted and was about to say something when Michael aggressively cleared his throat. “Time to go, then?” His eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them with irritation, or reprimand. Or could it have been jealousy?

  “Let’s hit it,” he said, shooting Michael his most jovial grin. “The door please, Al.”

  There was a faint hum and a series of sharp clicks as the ship’s boarding ramp closed and locked.

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  “Save it for Alaric Weston, sir.”

  The three set off along the long, widening crest headed for the narrow point where it descended to the town. Several stubby trees sprouted up amid the hilltop’s wild grass. As the slope gradually angled downward, their numbers seemed to multiply, covering the hillside with pleasant shade and greenery.

  “I’m not sure what’s creepier,” Jarek said quietly as they picked their way through the trees, “how freaking quiet it is down there, or the idea that it’s that quiet because everyone’s at church.”

  “You scoff,” Michael said, “but the teachings of the church are something this world needs now more than ever.”

  “Half of the people that went all stabby-looty-rapey on the world when things went to shit were God-fearin’ Christians, you know,” he said, picking his way over the trunk of a fallen tree and turning to watch the others scramble over. “But that’s not the point. I’m just saying I have a bad f—”

  A pair of gunshots rang out in quick succession somewhere off to their left. Crack. Crack. Maybe half a mile away.

  “—a bad feeling about this, guys. A real bad feeling.”

  They all waited for several seconds to see if more shots would follow. For now, all was quiet.

  “So.” He drew one of his pistols. “Probably that way, then?”

  Michael yanked his own pistol out of his pocket, slightly wide-eyed. “Marauders?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  They set off in the direction of the shots. Jarek set their pace at a careful trot. They were on the clock—the gunshots had established that—but they’d have a better chance of handling whatever they might find if they avoided running full speed into it off the bat. Plus, running downhill through thick foliage wasn’t exactly conducive to rapid travel, at least not if one preferred not to break one’s neck.

  The slant of the hill grew steeper, and a highway came into view at the bottom. He picked his way over and around shrubs, downed trees, and other obstacles. The shallow wound in his shoulder awoke with a steady ache as his pulse picked up from the exertion.

  They’d just reached the crumbling highway when another shot rang out. And there—the faint trace of a scream from the same direction. It sounded terrified, not pained, and it hit him straight in his anger button.

  On the other side of the empty highway, they cut toward the heart of town, skirting the line of dilapidated wooden fences separating the road from the back yards of several houses. After a few properties, the fences ended and the space to their left opened into a paved parking lot. It was backed by a small brick building that was, like most of Deadwood, in surprisingly good shape.

  He led them across the lot to the corner of the building and pressed up against the warm brick wall, listening. The murmur of voices was unmistakable now. Slowly, cautiously, he peered around the corner.

  Michael had been right. It looked like most of the town had been at church when marauders had rolled into town and caught them with their collective pants down.

  Eight men were herding the townsfolk out of the church. The marauders were all armed, mostly with shotguns, pistols, and a couple of old lever action rifles. Given that the frightened townspeople were still filing out the doors at either side of the building’s front, there were probably at least another five or six marauders inside, maybe more.

  “Shit.”

  “What is it?” Michael whispered.

  “You were right about church,” he whispered back. “But we also have at least a dozen marauders over there, and it doesn’t look like they’re here to praise the Jesus.”

  “Shit,” Rachel agreed.

  “We have to help them,” Michael said.

  He pinched his temples between thumb and forefinger. Of course they had to help them. What the hell else were they supposed to do? Much as he’d rather have nothing to do with it, he’d never managed to find the shut-off switch to that incessant voice in his head that demanded he stand up for the weak and the helpless when assholes came knocking.

  He glanced at the cowering townsfolk again.

  No walking away from that; they were just too damn pathetic.

  He could see a few potential approaches, none of which seemed fantastic. He gnashed his teeth as one of the marauders smacked a graying man to the ground.

  Getting clear lines of fire probably wasn’t going to happen, and fighting around defenseless innocents was never a good plan. Scratch that; it was a totally shit plan, especially when the baddies were perfectly willing to use innocents as human shields. He was far from above half-cocked plans, but if they wanted to take these guys down without getting everyone killed, they needed a better plan than rushing in, guns and staff blazing, and hoping for the best.

  They needed a distraction.

  He met Rachel’s steady gaze. Maybe she could whip up some arcane chaos. He was about to ask when a voice rang out ahead, cutting through the frightened murmurs of the townspeople and the confident jeers of the marauders alike with surly authority.

  “You boys’d be saving yourselves time if you kicked off to the next town now,” the new guy said. He was older, by the sound of it, with a bit of a drawl. “Ain’t much here worth your time, I’m afraid.”

  The guy had balls, Jarek had to give him that. He glanced around the corner again. Judging from the direction the marauders had turned their weapons, the guy was approaching from the n
ext road over, the one running right in front of the church. The adjacent building hid the guy from sight, but on the much brighter side, it looked like the universe had decided to give them that distraction.

  “Let’s go,” he murmured to the others before creeping across the gap between their building and the next in a low crouch.

  “Well, look at this, boys,” one of the marauders called.

  Jarek took cover behind the first of several cars parked beside the building. Rachel and Michael piled in beside him.

  “We have a real, live fucking cowboy here on our hands! I think you’re selling your town here short, old man. I see plenty here that looks worth enjoying.”

  Jarek pointed Michael’s attention to the service ladder bolted to the building next to them on the side opposite the church. He slipped Michael an extra mag from his belt. Michael nodded and dipped behind the building. Once he made it to the front edge of the rooftop, Michael would have a great line of fire. With any luck, one or two of his shots might even be clear. Fingers crossed.

  Jarek gestured for Rachel to follow him and began slinking toward the church, moving between the wall and the line of parked cars.

  He’d missed the mystery cowboy’s reply.

  “ . . . got a lotta balls, old man, I’ll give ya that, but you need to shut your fucking mouth and get over here with the rest of these good people before I get bored and start shooting.”

  Jarek stopped at the second to last of the cars next to the building. Cars typically made for pretty shitty cover, but two would be better than one if bullets started flying. Rachel hunkered down next to him as he leaned forward to get a look between the hood and the corner of the building.

  “Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

  The mystery cowboy of many-balled repute was a dead ringer for the man in the two pictures they had to go by. Rachel’s hand pressed lightly on his left shoulder as she leaned around to look too.

  “Son of a bitch,” she agreed softly.

  Standing in the dead center of the road, twenty or so yards away from the marauders, was Alaric Weston.

  14