The Harvest Cycle (7 page)

    “I am tired...”

    “I’m right here.”

    “I love you.”

    He kissed her forehead and watched her slip away.

***

    It was a house in a field, all of it stark gray, just different shades of gray in the leaves and the grass and the walls on the little frame house.

    It
felt
gray to Amanda as she stepped forward, passing over the lawn to the doorknob and turning it both clock and counterclockwise until it yawned open.

    She’d never lived in a house. She was a Harvest child, born after it all began. She had seen houses before and pictured the rooms inside and thought about what it would be like to have her own bedroom, her own bed. But not in stark gray, gray darkening as she entered the house with its weird angles, the walls all wrong, corners meeting obscenely and beckoning to her, closing in, the house a haphazard mess of lines thrown together by some crooked architect.

    
Hoooooommmeeee,
sang the terrible voice. Even in this crumpled mess of a house it echoed off the walls and pounded in her ears.

    
You want to know, girl?

    
You want to see it all?

    
Let’s go back to the beginning of the nightmare. In the Year of the First Harvest, dear.

    
Just watch...

***

    The night before the Run, Rafe settled awkwardly into the stiff contours of his hotel bed and dreamed. He dreamed he was standing outside his childhood home, a two-story house nestled against a hill. Glancing at his wrist, Rafe saw that he was wearing his grandfather’s watch; a skeleton watch, with all its tiny gears and parts visible beneath the glass. He’d always loved that watch. When his grandfather passed, they’d been unable to find it.

    There were no numbers on its face. That, despite Rafe’s unusual surroundings, was what tipped him off. He’d trained himself to look for such “dream signals”,
jamais vu
: unusual clocks, watches, doorknobs and light fixtures, things that defied logic because they were composed of shards of memory. He had sunk deep into his subconscious, he knew, and with this awareness he was able to observe the dream with a sense of clarity and control. He’d only been practicing so-called lucid dreaming for a year or so, but had already reaped its benefits. Rafe used his dreams to mentally prepare himself for the grueling marathons of the waking world. As his brain activity was the same during a dream run or a real run, he was able to prime himself for every event. In the past year his new discipline had brought him a slew of victories, and he was now recognized internationally as an athlete. In his mind, there remained only the Fevgos Run.

    Fevgos, part of a smattering of islands between Athens and Crete, had as its claim to fame a historic foot race held every five years. The streets of Fevgos were all narrow, cobbled, sharply-sloping paths that punished a runner in the worst way. Overall, the island was a gentle paradise, a fragment from a simpler time - but Rafe’s only purpose in coming there and booking a room at the New Mediterranean was to conquer its cruel streets. And he had used his dreams to steel himself for the run of his career, alongside some of the world’s most celebrated athletes. He would join their ranks as he stood atop Fevgos in triumph.

    But he wasn’t dreaming of Fevgos now, and wasn’t able to summon it to mind; as Rafe watched, his childhood home began to darken, to sag, to decay before his eyes. The wood cracked and bowed as shingles slid off the roof to rest in dying grass. Windows fell in, the door swung open at a broken angle, the porch groaned under its burden. Stumbling out of the yard, Rafe felt the skeleton watch shudder on his wrist, and saw it disintegrate into a rust-colored powder that stained his skin.

    A soft, lilting sound came from the corpse-house. Rafe stepped forward, unsure of what he was hearing. It sounded like his late mother, like the way she used to sing on warm spring afternoons, but it was slightly off-key. Frightening. Yet Rafe felt his legs carrying him toward the corpse-house, up the crumbling porch steps and through the blistered doorway.

    “
Mamá?
” He called. The house was an empty shell, but there was no echo; his voice was swallowed by the shadows.

    His skin was gooseflesh. An icy, alien cold permeated his body, and he wanted more than anything to run from the house but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He remained self-aware, yet this was no longer his dream, he was no longer in control.

    Someone...something else was.

    “Nightmare,” he breathed, fog drifting from his lips. “A nightmare.”

    The singing stopped.

    
Nightmare,
said that off-key voice, its pitch dropping.
I rather like that.

    “Where are you?” Rafe stammered.

    
Everywhere you are. Tasting, touching, feeling. Ah, sweet dreams
.

    “W-what are you?”

    
I’m Nightmare, isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you called me? I think that’ll do. If I were to tell you my name in my own tongue, it would shatter your pretty little mind
.

    This thing wasn’t part of his subconscious, Rafe knew. He’d been invaded - infected - by this Nightmare. He had to wake up. Rafe clenched his fists and willed himself to escape the dream. It should have been easy.

    But nothing happened.

    
Your dreams are beautiful. You don’t know, couldn’t begin to understand. The hunger...

    “I want to wake up!” Rafe cried. “Let me out!”

    
You’ll be free soon enough. You and your sweet dreams.

    A thunderous roar tore through the corpse-house, rattling the walls, making Rafe scream-

    Then he woke up.

***

    It was the day after the Fevgos Run.

    The race had never happened.

    Rafe Castillo sat on the floor, in the corner of the New Mediterranean’s tenth-floor Executive Lounge. He was numb from his head to his toes and through his spirit. The warmth of liquor in his belly hadn’t helped; it only weighed him down more, made him more resigned to his fate.

    On the dawn of the Run, as the sun broke over the ocean horizon, pink shapes became visible just beneath the water’s surface. The size of grown men, the raw, meaty things washed ashore and lay in the sand.

    Alex Poulos, manager of the New Mediterranean, had been on the beach when it happened. He’d warily crept toward the things, trying to discern limbs and features among the fleshy piles. They had to be sea animals, or at least parts of sea animals - finally, he’d been brave enough to kneel and touch one, to press his fingertips into its spongy skin.

    All at once, simultaneously, the things exploded to life. Thick, muscular legs pushed them into the air, and arms unfolded from broad, flat chests. Hairless pink heads snapped up and milky white eyes opened wide. Towering over Poulos, the one he’d touched splayed its fingers - claws, terrible ten-inch claws - and sliced both his hands off at the wrists.

    Then it had plunged its claws into his face.

    This was at dawn, seven o’clock in the morning. By seven-thirty they’d reached the center of the island.

    There were dozens upon dozens of them. And they were built for speed, these awful things, tearing up the narrow streets with ease to sink their claws into vendors, cabbies, children playing - a cacophony of screams filled the air over Fevgos, and every guest in the New Mediterranean had been jolted awake by the sound.

    Seconds later, the creatures burst through the lobby doors.

    Rafe’s only impression of them had been a brief glimpse as he ran into the Executive Lounge. They looked like skinless pumas standing on their hind legs. Their chests thudded violently, as if they contained an entire cluster of hearts; and they very well may have. For all he knew, these things breathed methane and pissed acid. There was only one fact of which he was dead certain.

    They were here to kill everyone.

    Two tables and several chairs had been piled up against the lounge door. The curtains had been pulled over every window. The lights had been turned out, through Rafe wasn’t sure what good that would do. It only made him more scared.

    Abe Hildern had insisted on cutting the lights. Speaking in a harsh whisper, the Brit had taken control early on, ordering the other guests to stop shouting and erect a barricade. Rafe knew Abe somewhat, and knew he was a level-headed guy who would think rather than panic. He was glad Abe had made it to the lounge.

    They were all runners, the survivors gathered in here: Erika Thorn, a soccer forward from the U.S. jockeying for a spot on one of the European teams. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and she kept undoing and doing it until Rafe thought she was going to yank the hair right out of her head.

    Peter O’Connor. Rafe still couldn’t believe he was here. Stripped of Olympic gold in ’04 for doping, exiled from the running world. The Fevgos Run was probably the only event he could get into these days. His wife Dani, another runner, had divorced him following the scandal. She was dead somewhere downstairs.

    So was Gayle Gaines’ husband Neil. Another Olympian, Gayle was making her return to the sport after giving birth to her first child. One-year-old Emma was cradled in her arms at this moment, Gayle whispering gently to her, cooing as if the apocalypse wasn’t unfolding on the other side of the door. In fact, Gayle acted as if there was no one else in the room. Except whenever she mentioned Neil’s name.

    Peter had broken into the liquor cache and started passing out bottles. Everyone but Gayle had been drinking for several hours now, hoping to attain a stupor that would cloud their fear and their awareness of this waking nightmare.

    Nightmare...the word stirred an uneasy feeling in Rafe’s gut. But he couldn’t remember why.

    Peter lowered a bottle of tequila from his lips long enough to whisper, “I haven’t heard anything out there in a few hours.”

    “That doesn’t mean they’re gone,” Abe replied. “They might be prowling around looking for us. For anyone, I mean. What I mean is...” He lowered his voice even more, glancing at Gayle. “I mean, I think everyone out there is dead.”

    “Oh, God,” Rafe breathed. “What if this isn’t just happening here? What if it’s everywhere?”

    “Then we’re dead already,” Peter said. He took a long pull off the bottle. “Might as well just drink ourselves to death.”

    “Stop drinking,” hissed Abe. “Your voice is getting louder. You need to get a hold of yourself.”

    “Wow, Abe,” Peter slurred. His voice was increasing in volume, and it made Rafe squirm as he continued. “You want a fucking medal, Abe? Maybe another of mine?”

    “Don’t start.” Abe got up and crept over to Gayle’s corner. Peter scowled, obviously itching for a fight. He looked toward Rafe, who stared into his lap.

    “How’s Emma?” Abe asked Gayle. The woman smiled. “She’s sleeping.”

    The infant’s face was pale. She hadn’t eaten - none of them had - in nearly two days. They were all beginning to feel the effects. Rafe’s head ached as much as his stomach did, and he could only keep his mind off the pain by having another drink. The empty bottles were beginning to pile up. Their cache wouldn’t last much longer.

    And after that, then what? Wait and starve? Pull down the barricade and run into the claws of the creatures?

    Erika Thorn had seen one of them close-up. She said their claws looked like knives of glass, catching slivers of light as they swiped across the faces of their victims. The lobby had become a slaughterhouse as fleeing guests found the creatures waiting for them. Erika had barely managed to escape, slipping and sliding through thick pools of gore. But she’d made it - they all had.

    Because they were runners, Rafe realized. Every other person out there had probably been full of adrenaline, every single one fighting for his or her life. But only the athletes had the skill to evade the creatures, to find the path of least resistance. Rafe had released several YouTube videos of his “free running”, the art of getting from point A to point B in the most creative way possible. A gymnastic art evolved from David Belle’s
parkour
, free running focused on the aesthetic aspect of efficient movement. Rafe had made videos of himself vaulting off balconies and over walls, dancing across railings and defying gravity to get from one place to another. It had no doubt increased his popularity outside of his native Spain.

    Tip-toeing over to the one of the windows, Rafe moved the curtain ever so slightly, getting a look outside. He saw the rooftops of smaller, older buildings, saw clotheslines and power lines and open windows. His mind raced. Would it be possible to get from the roof of the New Mediterranean to one of those buildings? Was it worth the risk to leave the lounge?

    “It’s not worth it,” Abe whispered, startling Rafe. The other man pulled the curtain closed. “They’re everywhere. They’d be on you in a second.”

    “You don’t know that. Not for sure,” Rafe said.

    “You’re right,” Abe replied. “But what do you think would happen?”