Reaping The Harvest (Harvest Trilogy, Book 3) (15 page)

Their radio crackled to life just as a pair of Apache attack helicopters flew overhead, the beat of the rotors drowning out the call. She wasn’t sure what these two were doing here. They’d been flying around, but not shooting at anything. Not that there’d been much to shoot at for the last couple days.
 

After throwing the Apaches an annoyed look, Menendez spoke into the radio. “Say again, over?”

“Interrogative: is there any sign of movement in your sector, over.”

Menendez looked at Sheridan, who shrugged, then shook her head.
 

“That’s a negative. We haven’t…”

He broke off as Sheridan seized his hand. “Look!” She pointed down East 71
^st
Street. Dark figures were emerging from behind the rubble and the few buildings that remained standing. More poured out of the sewers, the heavy manhole covers flung aside as if they were made of styrofoam. Harvesters boiled out like ants from a hive that was under attack. Sheridan knew that the sewer lines below them had been blown up to try and keep the harvesters from using them to get behind the barricade, and some souls braver than her had been running patrols down there to make sure it stayed that way. But she couldn’t help but wonder how hard — or easy — it would have been for the harvesters to dig their way through if they wanted to.

“Ahhh…” Menendez broke off, trying to get some idea of how many harvesters were heading their way. It didn’t take him long to give up counting. The entire street was packed with the things like the starting line of a halloween themed marathon. “Yeah, we got movement, all right! There’s a shitload of the bastards coming up out of the sewers and some of the buildings, heading east on 71
^st
toward the barricade!”

To their north, near the elbow formed by the intersection of I-90 and I-94, rifles and machine guns began to chatter, accompanied by the
whump
of mortars firing. To their south, more weapons fire erupted near the intersection of Stony Island Avenue and I-90, and spread along the barricade as harvesters surged toward the human defenses.

“Sweet Jesus,” Sheridan said. She keyed her own radio, which was tuned to her squad’s frequency. “Open fire!”

She pulled the M-16A2 rifle into her shoulder, aimed the muzzle at the center of the approaching horde of monsters, and pulled the trigger. Beside her, Menendez put his M-60 machine gun on rock and roll, sending a solid stream of tracers into the lead ranks of the harvesters. On either side, the other defensive positions started doling out their share of pain.
 

“Reload!” Menendez shouted.
 

Sheridan dropped her rifle and snatched up the end of the belt of 7.62mm rounds hanging from the machine gun’s receiver. In a smooth, well-practiced motion, she clipped on the next belt from the box of ready ammo and slapped her partner’s helmet. “Ready!”

Menendez opened fire again, barely missing a beat, as Sheridan picked up her rifle and began shooting the proverbial fish in the barrel.
 

“We’re not even slowing ‘em down!” There was an edge of panic to Menendez’s voice.
 

Despite the flaming casualties that thinned their numbers, the harvesters kept coming, screeching so loud she could hear it over the sound of the guns firing.
 

“Just keep shooting, asshole!” She kept firing herself, ejecting magazines and slapping new ones in.
 

The things swarmed past the elementary school on Rhodes Avenue, then spread out along St. Lawrence, leaping and climbing over the rubble of the killing ground that made up the last hundred yards before the barricade. Sheridan’s eyes grew wide at the sight before her: the harvesters covered the ground in a solid mass of dark skeletons and bruised-looking malleable flesh.
 

She keyed her radio again. “Willie Pete! Use everything you’ve got!”

A moment later, dozens of grenades flew from the defensive works, landing among the approaching swarm. But the effect was not at all what the defenders anticipated. There were so many harvesters now that when the grenades exploded, the white phosphorus was contained within a small circle of bodies, clinging to a few individuals, rather than being spread in a wide arc.
 

Somewhere behind the defenders, along the shoreline of Lake Michigan, batteries of mortars went into continuous fire, laying down more white phosphorus rounds perilously close to the barricade. Harvesters died, for the mortar bombs were a lot bigger than the hand-held Willie Pete grenades, but the chitinous horrors surged forward.

“Christ, look at ‘em all!” Menendez screamed. He had stopped using controlled bursts and was just holding down the trigger of the M-60. The gun’s barrel was so hot from the continuous fire that it was smoking, and Sheridan burned her hands on the weapon’s receiver as she clipped on the next ammo belt.
 

That was when she was hit by the stench, an overpowering wave of the infamous harvester reek that brought tears to her eyes and made her cough.

She and Menendez ducked down as a brace of rockets streaked overhead, blasting dozens of harvesters to bits and adding to the growing conflagration of burning bodies. Glancing up, they saw one of the two Apaches that had been prowling around, now hovering overhead, just behind the barricade. The helicopter added its 30mm chin gun to the rocket fire, showering the men and women below with hot shell casings as it killed more of the monsters.

Sheridan poked her head back up and stared in horrified amazement as the things continued to press forward.
 

She and Menendez were still firing their weapons when the harvesters swarmed over their position.

***

They found Melissa beneath a tree at the southern end of what Dale called Symphony Lake. She was wearing a tattered flannel shirt that came halfway down to her knees over a too-large pair of jeans. On her head was a black knit cap, and a frayed blue scarf covered most of her face.
 

“You promised.” Her words were an accusation directed at Dale, who followed Jack and Terje from the truck.
 

“I know I did,” the old man told her. “But they come looking for ya, and this one,” he nodded at Jack, “says they won’t take you ‘less you say so.”

She didn’t reply, but her bright hazel eyes said enough. Dale shifted uncomfortably.
 

Terje kept watch while Jack came and knelt beside the girl. “Melissa, my name’s Jack Dawson. I was sent here to find you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not going back to the hospital. Not
ever
.”

Shaking his head, Jack told her, “We don’t want to take you back there. Melissa, I was sent by the President of the United States to find you and take you to a place where you’ll be safe.”

“The president?” Her eyes widened. “Am I in that much trouble?”

Both Jack and Terje laughed. “No, you’re not in trouble at all. The truth is that we need your help. We need it very badly. It’s sort of hard to explain — I don’t fully understand it myself — but the condition you have, the Morgellons disease, there’s something in it that we might be able to use against the harvesters. You might be able to save us all, Melissa.”

She blinked a few times, thinking over his words. “I won’t go to another hospital.” She looked up at the old man. “They can’t make me, can they, Dale?”

“He promised, girl,” Dale said, pointing to Jack.

“It’s not a hospital,” Jack told her. “It’s a big military base that has the country’s smartest people waiting for you to help them. One of them’s my girlfriend, I guess you might say. She’s very nice, and so are the other people who work there.”

“I don’t want to go.”

Jack sat back, and Terje gave him a look. To the south, the rate of artillery fire had quickened, and more aircraft were flying in, dropping a flurry of ordnance. Overhead, one of his Apache escorts made a pass over the man-made lake before turning back toward the barricade. He used the distraction to give himself time to think. He wanted her to go willingly, and didn’t want to have to carry her off kicking and screaming.
 

He was about to say something else when Alexander, in the carrier strapped to his back, voiced his annoyance.

Melissa’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

“That’s my cat, Alexander. Here, take a look.” Jack shrugged off the carrier and set him down so Melissa could see. The big cat stared up at her with his green eyes and meowed.
 

“Is he nice?”

“To people, yes. To harvesters, not so much. Here, you can pet him. He won’t bite.”

Melissa tentatively stuck a finger through the mesh top of the carrier, and Alexander licked it, then rubbed his chin against it as he began to purr.

“Wow, he really likes you. He doesn’t purr like that for just anybody,” Jack lied. “You like him?”

She nodded. “I’ve never had a kitty, or a puppy, either. My parents never would let me have one.” Her eyes suddenly welled up with tears. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” She whispered.

Jack held her gaze. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. A lot of folks have made it to safety, but with the phone and computer networks down, it’s really hard to figure out who and where they are. I won’t lie to you: they might be gone. But there’s also a good chance they made it. We won’t know until we get out of here.”

Wiping away the wetness from her eyes, she said. “Can I hold your cat?”

“Sure.” Jack took hold of the end of the leash protruding from the top of the carrier where he’d wedged it into the zip-up top, then opened it up. “Here,” he said, picking Alexander up and putting him in her lap. “Watch out. He’s heavy.” He leaned closer as Melissa started running her hands through the cat’s fur. “There are lots of cats at the place we want to take you. You can have one of your very own if you want.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “Really?”

He nodded. “You bet. And because you’re so important — even the president says so — you can probably have
two
cats.”

Melissa glanced up at Terje, who nodded.
 

Jack’s radio suddenly came to life. “Alpha Yankee Nine Seven, this is Foxtrot Romeo One Eight, come in, over.”

He glanced up at Terje. “It’s the Apache flight leader.” Jack keyed his mic. “Foxtrot Romeo One Eight, go ahead, over.”

“Be advised that we’ve got movement just west of the barricade,” the pilot told him. “
Lots
of movement. Recommend you evac, ASAP.”

Gunfire erupted from the barricade to their north and south just before the defenders to their west, closest to the cemetery, opened fire. Alexander hunkered down in Melissa’s lap, a low growl in his throat.
 

“Roger,” Jack told the Apache pilot. “We’re packing up now. Have the Black Hawk standing by to pick us up. Alpha Yankee Nine Seven, out.” Turning to Melissa, he said, “Honey, we’ve got to go, right now. Are you with us?”

Still clutching Alexander, she nodded.
 

“Okay, let’s get the hell out of here.” He stood up, then helped Melissa to her feet. He grabbed the empty carrier and slung it over his shoulder, not bothering to try to get Alexander back in. The cat was spooked now, and Jack knew he wouldn’t take kindly to being shoved back into the nylon cage.
 

“Do you hear that?” Terje said.

It took Jack a moment to hear anything over the gunfire. Then he did: the hissing, shrieking noise that harvesters made. The sound turned his blood to ice. “Hurry,” he said, pushing Melissa toward the truck.“Dale, let’s go.”

The old man was staring at the west wall, his face a mask of calm serenity. “You go on ahead. I’ll see to the Lord’s judgement.”

“Uncle Dale!” Melissa reached for him, but Jack picked her up and put her in the truck. Terje piled in after her, while Jack grabbed Alexander and got into the driver’s seat.

“It’s okay, girl,” Dale called to her. “Don’ cry for me. Go on, now.”

“You’re not going to see God,” Jack shouted as one of the Apachea, directly overhead, loosed a pair of rockets toward the barricade, “you’re going to see the gates of Hell! Get in here!”

Dale threw Jack a quick salute, then started walking toward the west wall.

“Shit!” Starting up the truck, Jack slammed it into gear, then took off along one of the winding roads through the cemetery that he hoped would get them to the landing zone before everything fell apart.
 

The Apache opened fire with its 30mm gun, and a moment later a rising wail began to sound throughout the zone.

Melissa grabbed his arm. “The sirens! That means the barricade’s broken! They kept telling everyone that in the hospital.”

The sound of gunfire along the barricade just west of the cemetery died off as the defenders were swept away. The only weapons still firing in their sector were the mortars somewhere to the east, which were now dropping shells right on top of the interstate, and the two Apaches assigned to cover Jack’s team, both of which were now in play, hammering targets that were far too close. The screeching and chittering of the harvesters grew ever louder.

Toward the far end of the cemetery, he saw the Black Hawk coming in to land. “Get on the radio,” he said to Terje, “and tell Hathcock to make sure the LZ is secure.”

“Understood.”
 

In the rear view mirror, Jack caught sight of dark shapes loping along the road behind them. More swarmed over the manicured grounds, dodging between or leaping over the headstones. The swarm grew into a black tide.

He jammed on the brakes before sending the pickup into a skidding right turn, then a quick left, tossing Melissa and Terje back and forth in the cabin before he put his foot to the floor, pushing the truck to fifty miles an hour around another of the man-made lakes.
 

“Hang on!” Spinning the wheel to the right, he left the road behind a big mausoleum and tore across the grave sites, taking a shortcut toward the landing zone. Melissa cried out as they slammed into a headstone, the right front fender crumpling as the marble shattered. Jack struggled with the wheel, trying to keep them from spinning out of control and dodging around a much larger gravestone that tore away the mirror on his side.