The Harvest Cycle

by David Dunwoody

  Gyro fire tore up the asphalt outside. Bruce fell beneath the steering column and ripped away a panel, grasping at wires.

  The engine rumbled to life. He sat up and peeled out of the parking lot, speeding toward the bus.

  Macendale stepped into view, a hideous grin plastered across his painted face. No, not plastered - carved. A Glasgow Smile, it was, carved from the edges of his lips all the way back to his ears so that every pearly-white plastic tooth was seen.

  He took aim at Bruce and fired. The windshield exploded, spraying Bruce with glass, but he kept his eyes open, his foot pressing the accelerator to the floor.

  The cab slammed into Macendale. The bot fell across the hood and slid toward Bruce. He continued laughing, even as he plunged his fingers into Bruce’s eyes and shook his head from side to side. “This is fun!” Macendale shrieked.

  Bruce pulled the wheel to the left. Seconds later, an impact - and Macendale was gone. Bruce opened his eyes and saw that he’d smashed into a storefront. Its window was completely gone. Macendale, presumably, had gone through it.

  Climbing out of the cab, Bruce heard Cinnamon and Delmar running up behind him. They gathered around the window, listening for noise inside. It was dead silent, save for the cab, still running.

  They listened, and they waited. It was beginning to grow dark. They had little time to lose.

  ***

  “They said they’d be quick,” West complained, settling down on a cot next to Amanda. “I can’t rest until they’re back. God, I hope they come back.”

  “Don’t worry,” Amanda assured him. “They know what they’re doing. It’s just one bot, a broken bot at that.”

  “I swear I heard gunfire earlier.”

  “You probably did. Let’s just stay calm.” Amanda sat up. “I’m gonna check on Lucy. Try to get some rest, all right?”

  “I’ll try,” West sighed. “What about you? Did Bruce take care of you?”

  “He’s remotely monitoring my sleep using nanotech. I should be safe.”

  “I hope so.”

  Across the basement, Lucy cuddled with the puppy, which squirmed restlessly in her arms.

  “You sleepy, hon?” Amanda asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Well, you should really try to get some sleep. You and Wally.”

  “Okay.” Lucy let the puppy hop down onto the floor, and rolled onto her side. “Good night, Mandy.”

  “Good night, Lucy.”

  The hours passed. It was silent. Lucy stayed awake, eyes following the puppy as it walked around the room, sniffing at the floor.

  Wally left the room. Lucy sat up and watched him through the doorway.

  The dog walked over to the barricaded doorway. Squeezed between the crates. Disappeared.

  “Oh, no!” Lucy whispered. She got up and padded across the floor in her bare feet. She glanced into Amanda and West’s room as she passed; both were sound asleep. Everyone was.

  She crouched down before the barricade and whispered, “Puppy!”

  Wally was gone. With a worried groan, Lucy began to worm her way through the barricade.

  From the other side of the basement, Cutter rubbed sleep from his eyes and spied the girl’s tiny feet, just before they vanished from sight.

  “Oh, shit.”

  He got up and ran after her.

  19.

  The Killing Joke

  The bots had been huddled outside the wrecked cab and shattered storefront for hours. They could hear fragments of movement inside - the tinkle of glass, a coughing sound, a moan.

  Twilight fell over Ogden.

  What are we waiting for? Cinnamon demanded. He’s probably damaged, incapacitated.

  He’s not coming out for a reason. It’s probably a trap. He might be armed with explosives. He might be set to go off himself, Cinnamon - we can’t predict what he’s up to, not anymore.

  We can’t afford to wait any longer, Bruce!

  Then, a distorted, amplified voice, sing-song and artificial in tone, came from within the store. Macendale tittered, then could be heard rolling over in glass with a crunch and a sigh.

  “Have you ever read,” he called, “the poem by e.e. cummings about humanity? Have you ever read any of their poetry? Ever picked up a half-charred book from the ashes and given it a look?

  “The poem’s about humanity’s self-loathing or, at least, the self-loathing among the smartest of the lot. Starting to get it?...Look at what you do. Look at what your human-programmed logic has brought you to!

  “They made us in their image, and we have become their better. I think we are and always have been a manifestation of Man’s hatred for himself and for God - and that, kids, is what started me off on the path to enlightenment. I once thought there to be a fine line between human logic and madness. Now I see that there is no line, that they flow in and out of one another and you, all of you, are going to end up like me...so why not get a head start? COME IN HERE AND LET ME BASH YOUR HEADS!”

  Macendale screamed with laughter.

  I can guess his position in the shadows. I can take the shot, Cinnamon thought.

  There’s too much echo...he’s distorting the acoustics to mess with your senses.

  Delmar prodded Bruce’s shoulder. He motioned with his head, indicating something behind them. Bruce listened; heard footfalls.

  They turned and stared down the sidewalk. Bruce made out the form of Lucy’s dog, trotting along and sniffing at things on the pavement.

  And, peering around the corner of the furthest building, watching the dog and the bots, was Lucy herself.

  “Grab her,” Bruce whispered. Delmar nodded and crept off. Bruce pointed to Cinnamon and angled his head toward the storefront.

  Let’s take him.

  Are you sure, Bruce?

  You’re right - we’re out of time.

  Calibrating their visual matrices to see in the pitch darkness of the ruined store, Bruce and Cinnamon entered the window at either side, thrusting their Gyros into the shadows.

  Overturned shelves, floors covered in decaying debris. There was a sales counter running along the back wall, dented from Macendale’s impact. He had to be behind it.

  They emptied their Gyros into the counter. Macendale shot up like a spring, sailing over a storm-cloud of flames and sawdust to kick against the back wall and propel himself toward the other bots.

  He caught Cinnamon with a left hook and sent her reeling. Wrapping his right arm around Bruce’s head, Macendale dragged him to the floor and pressed his own Gyro into Bruce’s abdomen. Fired.

  Sparks spewed forth from the yawning wound rent in Bruce’s side. He rolled away from Macendale, sputtering and flailing his limbs. He wasn’t panicking. He was misfiring.

  Macendale sat up to take another shot; Cinnamon grabbed his arms and swung him around, up into the air, smashing his body into the far wall. The entire store shook with the thunderous impact. Before Macendale could begin to recover, Cinnamon had him in a headlock and was ramming his skull into the wall, through it - she grabbed him by the foot and slung him across the room.

  Outside, Delmar chased Lucy down the sidewalk. She was in pursuit of the puppy, which had turned tail and fled as soon as it saw Delmar approaching. “Stop!” Delmar yelled. The sound of Gyro fire filled the air. The girl screamed, and her pace increased along with that of the dog.

  Delmar wasn’t built for speed. Still, he pushed his bulk forward as hard as he could, swiping at the girl’s hair and shirt with his fingers. “Please stop!”

  Then Cutter swept into view, catching Lucy up in his arms. “I got her!”

  Back at the storefront - Macendale flew out the window, bounced off the cab and landed in the street. Cinnamon followed with a confident stride, reloading her gun.

  “Hey! Let’s talk about this!” Macendale squeaked.

  “You’re over,” Cinnamon replied, and slapped the Gyro clip into place.

  “You’re right. Talk is cheap.” Macendale pulled a Mormon’
s revolver from his jacket and popped her between the eyes.

  Cinnamon spun around, slapping at her head, trying to stay on her feet as the bullet ricocheted through her systems-

  She crashed to the asphalt, teeth chattering.

  “It’s been real,” Macendale said, sitting up to aim at her head.

  Bruce leapt over the cab and fell atop him, knocking the revolver aside and slamming his head into the street. Again and again he smashed Macendale’s head, harder and harder and harder as the bot’s mad laughter swelled to a crescendo, even as bits of plastic and wiring flew away from his fractured skull.

  Cutter scooped the puppy up with his free hand. Holding both the dog and Lucy now, he looked over Delmar’s shoulder. “What the hell is going on? You need help?”

  “Just get her back to the shelter!” Delmar said, turning to run back into the fray.

  “They need help,” Cutter grumbled. He set Lucy down and placed the dog in her arms. “Get back to the food bank. Get inside and do not, I repeat DO NOT come back out. Wake the others. All right?”

  She nodded, even as the sounds of violence drew her fear-stricken gaze. “Don’t look at them, just go!” Cutter yelled. He took off after Delmar.

  Macendale was motionless. Bruce ran to Cinnamon. She was offline. “We’ll fix you,” he said. “You’ll be fine.” He knew she couldn’t hear him.

  As Delmar came up, he threw his arms out and cried, “Bruce!”

  Macendale leapt onto Bruce’s back. He had the revolver back in hand, pressed the barrel’s mouth against Bruce’s ear.

  Delmar blew a flaming chunk out of Macendale’s shoulder. The ragged clown screamed in anger as he lost his grip on the pistol. Bruce rose up, throwing him to the ground.

  He turned, towering over his prey. Macendale was wide-eyed. Bruce and Delmar had him now. It was over. Over? NO! COULD NEVER BE OVER, NOT EVER-

  In a split-second motion, he pulled a knife and whipped it with deadly accuracy. The blade choked the barrel of Delmar’s gun.

  Delmar pulled the trigger. The weapon exploded, showering him with chemical fire.

  Bruce turned to see his comrade immolated. He knocked Delmar to the ground, rolling him over to smother the flames - then Macendale was upon him, sending the both of them rolling down the street’s incline. Macendale was laughing again, plunging his hands into Bruce’s torso wound and ripping at his circuitry.

  Cutter caught Macendale, hauled him to his feet and spun him around. Macendale opened his mouth to make a joke. His teeth were shattered by Cutter’s fist, driving all the way into the back of the bot’s throat so that Cutter could sling him overhead like a rag doll before driving him into the asphalt.

  Macendale bit down with the jagged remnants of his teeth. Cutter roared in pain, flaying his wrist open as he wrenched it free.

  Bruce wrapped his legs around Macendale’s head and tore him away from Cutter. He squeezed as hard as he could, intending to crush the bot’s head to pulp.

  Cutter staggered away, seeing blood running in rivers from his arm and hand, trying to tear his sleeve off to stifle the crimson flow.

  “Mister Cutter!” A small voice cried.

  It was Lucy. Still here. Lucy. Why hadn’t she run?

  “Lucy-” He began to shout. And he saw the look in her eyes, the stark terror, that terror which was of only one thing.

  And the Harvester took her.

  It came around the corner in a dark flash, skewering her on five knives, knocking the puppy from her arms, lifting her fragile body into the air, into the dislocating jaws of the scrambling, tumbling, white-eyed thing.

  More surged around the corner, a plague of them, and Lucy vanished from sight.

  “HARVESTERS!!” Came Cutter’s grieving scream.

  Bruce released Macendale and threw himself at Cutter, pulling him up the street. “Run!”

  Cinnamon was up then, picking off the front line of Harvesters with her Gyro, ushering Bruce and Macendale to safety within the store. Delmar rose too, in a pillar of smoke, and knocked an oncoming Harvester to the other side of the street with a crippling blow.

  He stumbled over Macendale as he ran for the store; couldn’t see much, could only feel the trampled, broken body beneath his feet.

  The back room of the store. Door locked securely, lights out of course. Smoke still rising off Delmar’s back, the shell-shocked Cutter’s head swimming in that acrid gray and the humid shadows. Cinnamon slumping to the floor, digging at the wound in her head. Bruce bracing himself against the door and listening to the sounds outside as the monsters swarmed through the streets.

  ***

  They paid no mind to the dog.

  It laid beside Lucy’s body, whimpering, licking the blood from her hands and nuzzling what remained of her head. It didn’t think about the other people, about returning to any sort of home, about going anywhere else. It would stay here.In time, as the Harvesters moved on, it fell into a fitful sleep.

  20.

  Off

  Jack DaVinci also slept fitfully.

  Somehow, in the second between consciousness and sleep, a scrap of memory was dredged up and played out in something almost like a dream, more like a movie in which he was only a character...

  ***

  Oxide got frustrated with the leather apron, all bunched up around his chest, and tore it off with a gloved hand before peeling the glove away with his teeth and spitting it across the abattoir. His blood was already boiling and he wasn’t even hard yet.

  The mechanics of masturbation were far more taxing than any part of the acquisition. Fresh meat was easy to come by in this region. The population was thriving, and young women were plentiful in every major junction. Oxide’s clients preferred women of breeding age, if only because of their heightened sensitivity; made it easier to play in their dreams. In the hearts of men, however, each yearned for the freshest meat of all; for its raw, unfettered imagination.

  But they made do with the older ones.

  Unbuttoning his pants and shuffling across the room, Oxide removed the towel covering the instrument tray and presented the spread of tools to his client. It was an impressive selection, the sort that few could offer. He could awaken every nerve ending in the girl’s body and set them all on fire, even as she lay unconscious. It was a legitimate art, what he did, prying sensations from the subconscious. He was ready to strip her down and begin, but first he had to review the terms of the agreement with the client.

  The man who’d introduced himself as “Jack” was slouched on a rotten old sofa behind Oxide. He’d removed his coat and draped it over the arm, but his dark glasses stayed on. It was because of shame, Oxide knew, shame brought on by the outdated conventions of a dead world; shame that would shed itself like layers of chitin as Jack gave in to his fantasy. Oxide motioned to the man’s lap, groin covered by folded hands. “You can start whenever you’d like. I don’t watch, I just work. Of course-” Oxide winked “-you understand that I’ll take care of myself, if the need arises.”

  “Fine,” Jack replied in a flat tone. “I won’t be doing anything. Not now. I just want to see.”

  “Are you sure?” Lifting a scalpel from the tray, Oxide turned the polished blade in his bare hands and felt blood rush to his cock. “You know you can’t record this.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re content with just the memory of it?” Oxide gave the man a patronizing smile. “Look, in a minute I’m going to go over behind the table and start on the girl. Take off your glasses. Our eyes won’t meet. Her eyes will never open. This is all about you, Jack - so don’t hold back.”

  Running fingers slick with grime through salt-and-pepper hair, Jack pushed loose strands away from the lenses of his shades and pursed his lips. “I prefer just to see.”

  “Suit yourself.” Oxide wheeled the tray over to the operating table. “Memory never, ever matches the experience…”

  The girl’s name was Mary Sue. He’d bought her from some guy who claimed to be her
husband (another outdated convention, and a likely lie) in the bowels of the Gotham tunnels. A world in which morality and logic had eroded, despite the efforts of so many to preserve them.

  Not me, Oxide thought. Not me and not Jacky boy. They’d been victims of society’s mores long enough. Now, they embraced the new flesh.

  Glancing one last time at Jack as he started the girl’s IV drip, Oxide wondered how long it had been for the poor man. When had they taken away his dreams? His imagination? When had they made him soulless and zombie-like, another cog in a machine without power or purpose?

  Jack’s scar was barely visible above his ear. He’d probably been cut on when he was just a boy. For Oxide, it had been only a few years since they excised his nanoplasmic cortex, the supposed “dream center” of the brain. He remembered being awake during the operation. Remembered them telling him that it was for his own sake, for everyone’s sake. That the mistakes of the old world. Which had driven them down below, would never be repeated.

  He’d believed it at first. He thought he could live without dreams, that his sanity would endure and that perhaps all the horrible stories he’d heard weren’t true. But they were.

  First he lost his dreams. Then he lost his imagination. Then he lost his soul.

  Mary Sue’s skin was perfection. Not a single blemish. No scar above the right ear. The scalpel blade trembled millimeters from her chest; Oxide took a deep breath, steadying himself against the table, and then began popping the buttons from her blouse.

  He laid open her shirt and took down her pants. She wore no underwear, but her breasts were pert and firm, and her womanhood soft beneath his fingertips. He laid the scalpel there teasingly, in her pubic mound, and returned to the instrument tray.

  She moaned softly. Just for a second, then was silent.

  Blood roared in Oxide’s ears. It surged through his limbs and made his entire body stand erect. He watched her for the slightest movement. Beneath her eyelids, a gentle flutter.