Harvesters
Looking down at the smooth stump that now ended his right arm, he was also quite certain something had gone horribly wrong.
It wasn't as though he was unaware of the danger lurking in the streets – a pack of Harvesters had been shot and killed just up the block – but his building had never been a trouble spot. The only Keepers he'd ever seen were on his way to work, storming past him on the subway platform to disappear into dark tunnels, or on the streets blocking off sections of roadway. Gruesome photos of men and women missing arms, legs and even heads had become commonplace over the last few years, and though the Genetic Movement denied responsibility, it was clear where blame could be placed. Not that it did any good.
Taking a deep breath, Josiah tried to still the panic within. Two choices were open to him now, choices that anyone who had been victimized by the Harvesters would receive. He could go to a clinic and tell them what had happened – according to government health funding rules, a new hand would have to be found and installed for him free of charge. The trouble with that plan was the fact that government programs were notoriously underfunded, and a new hand provided by a recently-deceased criminal or drug addict might do him more harm than good.
The other choice was to do nothing. When they took only a single piece of a body, Harvesters were very careful to leave the rest intact, but not out of kindness. Once attacked by Harvesters, the victim was always marked, and could be found more easily by the same pack if they needed a replacement part.
He sighed as he moved into the bathroom, stopping in front of the mirror to stare at his stump. Both choices were terrible, but there was no way he was going to get his original hand back. By now it was affixed to the rotting limb of a high-level Harvester, and the disease that wasted their bodies and twisted their minds would already be seeping into the stolen flesh.
No one knew – more likely, no one in power was saying – where the Harvesters had come from. The smart money was on the Genetic Movement and their passion for remaking humanity, but they disavowed all responsibility for creating a rapidly-mutating virus that consumed flesh and gave rise to twisted delusions. Of course, denial was an old trick, and didn't mean the Movement wasn't culpable, but there were those who believed one of the Splinter Nations were responsible, that they had developed a stain of virus specifically to attack the affluent North, but if that was true they'd done a terrible job; their own people were suffering just as much at the hands of the Harvesters.
It took a great deal of willpower for Josiah to get undressed and into the shower, but in the absence of a viable solution, he decided to simply go to work and hope for the best. The screening kit in his entryway would tell him if somehow he'd contracted the Harvest, but the chances of that were low – Harvesters were meticulous. Oddly, the thought of walking into work with a missing hand filled him with a dark kind of glee. The company would have to modify his job description now, and federal law was quite clear about how employees affected by the Harvesters were to be treated. Not only would his boss, Alan, have to step lightly around him and could be brought up on charges if he spoke out of turn, but he'd have to honor any request for leave that Josiah made in the next year, even if he didn't have enough vacation days saved up. A smile came to his face as he washed his hair, but disappeared when he tried to reach for the soap. His new condition would take some getting used to.
Even in a long coat, he felt conspicuous on the street. Just like he'd thought, the screening kit told him he was fine, but it was strange to see his right coat-sleeve uncapped by a hand, and he was sure people were staring at him as he headed for the subway.
A few moments of self-conscious slinking passed before he started to notice that he wasn't the only one. It seemed as though everywhere he looked there were missing limbs, removed ears, and those only moving around thanks to powered assistance. How had he not seen it before?
Distracted by the partial humans around him, he failed to notice the two dark shapes moving at the head of the next alleyway, and was pulled into the stinking corridor before he had a chance to react.
“Hey!” He called out, but felt a large hand slap over his mouth.
“Shut up, stumpy.” A low voice said. “You're coming with us.”
Struggling, he managed to open his mouth and bite down hard on the hand holding him, bringing a string of curses.
“Why you -” A hand went around his throat and began to squeeze.
“James!” Another voice called from the darkness. “Let him go. Josiah here is in a position to do us a very great favor, and we must respect that.”
“Favor?” He tried to get a better look at the men who had accosted him, but the dim alley gave him only shapes and rough outlines. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your missing hand, Josiah – not so much a random attack. Your boss, Alan, was good enough to assist us in planting a tracking marker in that hand, one keyed to your body. With your help, we can track down the Lead Harvester that has what you've lost.”
“Lead Harvester?” They were the stuff of myth; huge beasts with hundreds of grafted-on body parts. “Who are you?”
Silver flashed, and even in the alley's poor light he could make out the distinctive, stylized “K”.
Keepers.
- D
No comments:
Post a Comment