The Harvester (17 page)

F
our in the morning, Naes, Dorian, Charon, Mr. Herald, the five scientists, and I sit in a helicopter with the pilot and copilot as we fly over the Golden Gate Bridge. The traffic is already fairly busy as the commuters drive north into San Francisco and south into Marin County. We spot out three media vans right where Vega wants us to meet him. He’s definitely a crafty one.

Mr. Herald gathers everyone’s attention. “Everybody knows the plan. We need to be perfect with execution to be successful. Rock and roll?”

“Rock and roll!” we simultaneously shout out.

Everyone who drives by the media vans slow down and gawk to see what might be transpiring. When the shit hits the fan, and it will soon, the whole fiasco will be televised and viewed by millions—just like Vega wanted.

It’ll be the first time in the history of the battle between the Agency and Underworld that at this length and population will be covered and viewed. Since the advent of cameras, digital cameras, smartphones, and yada, yada, yada, nobody has ever captured more than a minute or so of us at work. Oh, wait. I forgot about Naes and myself and the freaky Section 520 Scorpions. Some people filmed all of that. And let me tell ya’, all major networks, late-night talk shows, CNN, MSNBC, even networks in other countries had a field day with that encounter. In less than an hour, it became the number one viewed hit on YouTube. I would’ve watched it too.

When the sun begins to rise, we have two undercover Harvesters within the San Francisco Police Department who will shutdown traffic from both sides for everyone’s safety and to not allow anyone to view what will most likely be a violent, vicious altercation. I always thought the Golden Gate Bridge was an amazing feat of human achievement, endurance, ingenuity, and absolute perseverance to accomplish what most couldn’t do in the 1930s. How tragic that blood will most likely be spilt on its vibrant color known worldwide.

Dorian pulls out Djinn’s high-tech night vision goggles and views the surrounding area for any Underworlder body heat. “I don’t see anything yet.”

I give Dorian an expression that he knows can only be construed as disappointment.

“What, Harvey?”

“Think outside the box, Dorian, when it comes to Vega. He probably has his Spies driving back and forth, most likely in a vehicle made to block out Djinn’s goggles from picking up the Underworlders’ body heat.”

“That’s why he’s the world’s number one Harvester!” Mr. Herald claims.

He slaps me a high five. Dorian returns a look that can only be read as, “Okay, you got me on that one, smart ass!”

Better to be a smart ass rather than a dumb ass, right? Exactly. Mr. Herald taps the pilot’s shoulder. “We can’t stay in the air too long. Vega will certainly spot us out. Set her down at Base 4100.”

The pilot nods and descends toward Alcatraz. Nobody knows it until now but the Agency has a small but formidable force set up in the bowels of the Rock. It’s more of an Intel department. So the next time you take a tour there, your tour guide quite possibly could be an undercover Harvester Operative. But you’ll never know nor will you find out.

The pilot sets down on the backside of the Rock. We pile out and stretch our tired, aching bodies. To keep sharp, Naes and Dorian sword spar. The scientists are impressed and entertained. Charon must be bored because he skips rocks across the Pacific’s choppy, frigid water.

Mr. Herald busily views his laptop which is tapped into numerous security cameras in the area to see when Vega arrives. I decide to get in a quiet comfort zone, so I sit down and begin to meditate. I’ve perfected the art of meditation due to utilizing it for many centuries and because of all the masters who have taught me. When I’m in deep meditation, I go to a different plane of existence. It’s the only time and place I feel at total ease and secure from all. I also cleanse my spirit when I meditate.

The people who have tried meditating and say it doesn’t work for them are doing it entirely wrong. I feel rejuvenated, invigorated, and—

I’m hit on the head, and I pop out of my meditation to see a rock lying beside me. Charon laughs.

“What would ever possess you to do that?” I ask him in a pissed off tone.

He points under the Golden Gate Bridge, and I look and see a submarine just emerging out of the ocean. “We have company,” Charon says with excitement.

Vega never ceases to amaze. A submarine as his entrance vehicle? Really? He has his own White Door, which can transport him and all his crew to anywhere he wants.

So why a submarine? I think now he’s just boasting.

“I really hope that sub doesn’t have nuclear capabilities,” Mr. Herald mentions. Now he has all of us wondering that. Mr. Herald views his laptop. “He may be able to see our Harvesters positioned under the bridge. I’ll inform them.”

Mr. Herald sends them a message via his laptop. “I hope they receive my message in time, or we’re screwed,” he whispers to me.

“Let’s rock and roll!” I shout to everyone, and they shout it back.

The scientists appear a bit confused and absolutely terrified. They have no idea what’s about to transpire. They make no attempts to try and fit in with us due to them not knowing how whatsoever. Their fear can be seen, but even worse, it can be smelt by us Harvesters. And it’s a stench that we’ve all smelt before and can never get out of our nostrils.

I step in front of everyone and address them. “I don’t care if Vega has a submarine or not. We stick to the plan. Let’s do it, gentlemen. Stay frosty!”

Mr. Herald views our undercover Harvester cops through his binoculars. “Our guys have traffic stopped.”

The media vans speed off to one of them. I bet that’s going to upset Vega. As soon as they get to them, they will make sure to hold them there, so we can handle business without the world watching. We notice the submarine dives and vanishes into the dark waters of the Pacific Ocean.

Mr. Herald presses a button on his laptop and a Black Door emanates out of the concrete. One-by-one we step into it and vanish. The Black Door reappears on the Golden Gate right where Vega said for us to meet him. We step out of it and it disappears into the street. Now we play the waiting game. This is the part I hate. I thoroughly enjoy the hunt and even more so, the combat. Even before I was a Harvester and still had a beating heart, I loved it.

I
was raised in a time and age when all males, some females too, at an early age, learned the ways of the sword, combat, horse riding, grandiose battles, and were used to lots of blood spilt. By the age of eleven, I had already killed six men, men, adults, and I had no qualms about doing so. I guess you can call me sanguinary by way of the battle.

The year, was 1109 AD, the middle of what most historians claimed to be the period which determined Germany’s fate. I was of royal blood, yet my family line was one of brave, brutal warriors and knights as well. It was a time of civil war and feudal lords battling each other for land and more importantly, the crown. My family was aligned with a powerful Lord and had been successful at battles and ruling the land for centuries. My great-great-grandfather was the ruler who helped fend off and eventually drive the mighty Roman Empire out of our land for good. I think that’s a perfect example of the fortitude and downright toughness of my family bloodline.

Like I stated, I was eleven in 1109 AD, and my father was going to wage war against an opposing faction who were slaughtering innocent civilians, farmers, and traders in our land. My father knew that this must be stopped by any means necessary. My mother told me that on the night I was born, my father held me and looked into my eyes and said, “People say legends are made, not born. With my son, I beg to differ.”

Due to his thought process of me, I was allowed to join his army at the tender age of eleven. I was the youngest ever to ride into battle. And nobody ever doubted my father, nor my abilities.

It was a cold, dreary dawn, and I can admit it, even though I have killed before, I was nervous to go into battle. Not due to the chance of dying on the battlefield but rather to disappoint my father. As a youngster, I had nightmares of doing just that. I had two sisters who needn’t worry over such a thing.

My father’s army straddled their strong, perfectly bred warrior horses and awaited his orders. My father was known as a man of few words, but when he did speak, everyone knew it was important and listened to every word. He truly believed that a man’s actions built true character, not what one says. So when one who believes this to be true does actually speak, it must be crucially important words to take heed to with 100 percent belief. And his army did so and were loyal to the death. When he did save his words for a pre-battle speech, it was definitely designed to pump up his army. Brilliant leaders have been doing this tactic for centuries and it works. My only goal at this stage of my life and until his death was to make my father proud of his only son. Thus, making him look good in our alliances’ eyes. And in the twelfth century, this was incredibly important to warrior fathers with some sort of clout. Even farmers and blacksmiths only want two things: A lucrative business and for their sons to respect ’em and make ’em proud.

As we ride into battle, at this time, many battles were occurring across the known world. Even Henry V was busily campaigning. But I stayed focused on this one, of course. Revenge for all the innocent deaths befallen our land and country folk. There is no other alternative other than to be victorious.

“Victory or death in the attempt to be victorious” is what my father would say.

No retreats. No bargains. No treaties. Even at the age of eleven, I knew this. In a full assault, such as this, my father always rode in front of me in order to clear a path for me, and then, I could attack the ones who become discombobulated to assure my safety and so I could get some kills under my belt. With that said, as both armies charge each other, my father led the charge like any leader should. His hero growing up and still is, was Alexander the Great. He researched, learned, and executed all his techniques and strategies to a tee in order to be a better leader, fighter, warrior.

He surged ahead of me and immediately began cutting down our enemies. Anyone who survived my father’s onslaught, I took care of like a brilliant knight in his mid twenties. Their eyes were wide with shock to see a preteen on the battlefield there to kill ’em. But I did without any second thoughts. And I must admit, I enjoyed cutting their depraved lives short. That mentality would aid me very much so as a Harvester. When my father did die at the age of ninety-three, I often wondered if I’d see him in Heaven. Later, when I became a Harvester, I discovered he was offered a one-way ticket to Heaven. He was murderous, but he did it in the name of his people and land. It was acceptable for the times. Plus, he was a devout believer in God. He became a warrior for God, ready for the inevitable war against Satan. Look out Satan. My father most likely will be the first to stare you down across the battlefield. The Heavens fully welcomed him, for he was not a bad man. His humanly decisions were considered meant well by “the powers that be.” As for me, my death occurred at the age of thirty-two when I was a feudal lord of our land. I followed in my father’s footsteps when he could no longer battle.

It was the siege of Lichsten on a rainy morning in the dead of winter. The clouds began to drop a flurry of snow.

My army was battling the vicious Goths, a nomadic band of marauders and cutthroats. They had been conquering everyone across the land and had now entered my domain. They were not ones to be trifled with, and they were a formidable foe who thoroughly enjoy the battle. I admired that. But that day, they must perish.

I was atop my horse slaughtering Goth after Goth with my favorite sword. Blood splattered into my horse’s eyes, temporarily blinding her. She went wild and bucked me off to the cold, snowy ground. When I landed, my sword penetrated the side of my stomach. Ever since I was a child, I’ve had an incredibly high threshold for pain. So I stood as four Goths, who saw my fall and injury, rushed me. I don’t blame them. You see weakness in your enemy, then you take advantage of that, and you take them out. The four Goths attacked me at once in a circular formation. I didn’t hesitate, and I dropped to one knee, and with all my strength, I swung my sword in a circular fashion. All four Goths dropped to the ground, holding their stomachs as their intestines spilled out onto the blood-soaked snow. It’s a move my father taught me as a youngster. I quickly realize I’m losing a lot of blood. I begin to feel faint, dizzy even. I definitely do not want to go unconscious during combat. I’d rather die during a duel, the honorable way. Not falling off a horse and stabbing oneself. My people can’t lose their leader. If I die, my people die from the Goths. This made me fight beyond the pain. With that said, I was still losing plenty of blood. I needed to act quick or I knew I would bleed out, and it would be all over for us. Mothers, children, civilians, all dead.

Like wolves circling an injured deer, the Goths came for me by the droves. I bested one, two, three, four Goths with all of the energy I have left. Some of my men saw my situation and rushed to my aid. I couldn’t handle it any longer.

I dropped to my knees, feeling very faint. The world spun. I fell to my back. My eyes closed. The next thing I remembered was opening my eyes and seeing a stern-looking powerful man who sat in an elevated throne type of chair.

He tells me, “Harvey Cholotsy, you are now one of the Undead, a Dead One. You fought gallantly, as usual, but your days of fighting on the battlefield as a living human are over.”

This news hits me hard. Not because I’m dead, but rather, I’m worried about my family, my people, our land. And it goes without saying that I will definitely miss the battle ever so much.

He continued with, “However, we can take you to the After, which for you has already been judged to be Heaven. Or, you could work for the Agency as a Harvester Agent for as long as you like.”

I’m confused, yet intrigued. “What are you saying?”

“We’ll send you back to the Here, but not the same region, nor alive, and your love for the battle continues in various ways. But you must follow our rules and regulations. What say you?”

I couldn’t help but to nod with a childish grin across my face. Maybe it was meant to be that I died at this age.

“I was born for the battle, sir. Yes, yes, I accept your offer,” I told him.

“Excellent. You’ll be immediately sent to the Agency’s Academy to be trained and educated about exactly what it is we do.”

“I’m eager to begin.”

And that was how I was inducted, recruited rather into the Agency. A few centuries later, after America was settled, the Agency set up shop there, and I requested to be reassigned. They agreed.