THE HARVEST CYCLE teaser

(The first full trailer is linked somewhere on the homepage at daviddunwoody.com.)

A Lovecraftian sci-fi/horror novel by David Dunwoody - coming in print from Permuted Press and in audio from Audible.com.


The first 5 chapters are free to read at this site.


It has been fifty years since the first Harvest. Hideous creatures, lethal and lightning-fast, were sown into the beds of Earth's oceans eons ago. Now every year, in service to a mad god, they rise from the depths and hunt humans.

Man hides underground in fear of the Harvesters. But he is also sought by other predators: the robots that for years were his companions are now driven to exterminate him in a warped mission of mercy.

In a race against time, a group of humans cross the United States in a desperate plot to destroy the Harvesters before the next cycle. As if psychotic robots, lobotomized cops and flesh-eating nomads weren't enough of a challenge, they may just invoke the wrath of the ancient god itself...

Four. The Plan.

“The maps you’ve given me over these last few weeks, Hitch, have been a big help.” West folded the papers over his arm. He was standing in front of the van, its headlights illuminating the cavern in which the dreamers all stood. Ira Buchanan up front, Amanda at West’s side, Lucy and Walter and their puppy front and center among the audience of citizens.

“What we know about the Harvesters,” West began. “That they come from the sea, that for thirty days they have one purpose: to tear through the streets and tunnels in search of us, to harvest. To kill and eat, to take in our dreams, to sleep, and then to wake and kill again. And at the end of thirty days they return to the sea. They cloister.

“I’ve seen them fall into the surf like corpses, tentacles unfurling from their backs. They cloister and turn themselves off – hibernate - save for whatever psychic means they use to transmit those stolen dreams – and they wait for the next year.”

West had everyone’s attention. With or without his doctorate he commanded them, inspired them. Amanda sat by his leg and hugged him.

“Now, last year’s Forty-Ninth Harvest, came in late winter. Those cloisters out there in the sea are still new. They’re new and they’re fragile, I know this. I know it because of things I’ve seen. I know that the Harvesters, like the Others, share one hive mind.”

West looked out over the faces of his people. They believed it too. They were willing to believe anything he taught them in the light of this van in a cavern beneath the city their ancestors had built and lost.

“That’s how they communicate with it...the one called Nightmare...that’s how they communicate with each other. And I have seen this link disrupted, in times when we were fleeing and fighting; I saw a grenade go off and it killed one of the Harvesters dead, blew it right up. But I also saw those around it, those far outside the range of the blast, stumbling and falling. I saw them die too, and for no reason other than their proximity to the one that was actually killed by the explosion. It was like they’d been hit by some psychic shockwave.

“I believe that, if we can induce a major trauma – and I’m talking cataclysmic – among the cloistered Harvesters, it will kill them all. At least those in this region. At least.”

Everyone was nodding, was understanding. Going with it. Hitch couldn’t believe it.

“I happen to know of a naval base in what was California, in Humboldt County – a base they had just opened when the First Harvest happened. Thanks to my friend Hitch and his maps, I know that we’re about thirty-nine hours away from that base if the main roads are clear. That’s notwithstanding breaks and blocks and all the rest, but what I know is that NBHC has a cache of weapons that might be able to cripple the Harvesters before they surface to make their next run.”

“What about the bots?” someone shouted.

“What about Gotham?”

“If we can do this, then there’s no reason for them to threaten us, ever again!” West shouted. “This can be a new beginning for all of us! We can go back to the way things were before, don’t you see? Never another Harvest! Never another Harvest!”

The crowd took up the cry. It filled the cavern and became a thundering force that made the walls tremble. Hitch watched faces change and souls light up, watched West and Amanda embrace, watched the Plan erupt into life.

#

“We need a team. I’m thinking five of us.” West sat in the back of the van with Hitch.

It was Hitch’s first time in the vehicle. The walls had been re-paneled and shelves installed, along with some cots. Looked like it would sleep five easy.

“We want to keep our load light. Need every last drop of fuel to get us to the Pacific,” West said. “Now, we’ll need someone tough, someone who’s really been there, out there, in it with the bots and the Harvesters.”

“Haven’t you been there?”

“I mean a guy who stayed and fought. I mean Cutter.”

“Cutter. Really.”

“He’s a rough customer, but he’s not crazy. Strong as hell. I think he might have some military-slash-technical knowledge too, and I know I’m gonna need some help once we get to NBHC.”

“And it’s decided that I’m on the crew?” Hitch asked.

“It’s always been that way. C’mon.”

“Me and you and Cutter.”

“And Mandy.”

Hitch brought his fist down hard.

“She doesn’t need to be part of this.”

“Actually, she does. Let me tell you why.”

“Don’t fucking start Mike, we don’t need this--”

“She’s been having some intense dreams,” West said quietly. “She thinks she might be touching that thing out there...Nightmare.”

“So you want to use her to keep tabs on the Harvesters, is that it?”

“I’m not using her! She’s fully aware of her abilities and I think she wants to hone them.”

“Why didn’t I ever hear of this before?” Hitch spat.

West shrugged. “It’s just...you know, as we approach the Plan date here and stress builds, I think it’s opened her mind.”

“Yes, you opened her mind.”

“I didn’t say ‘I’, did I? Do we have to do this like we’re fucking teenagers?”

“No, it’s just that my passion and my vision never opened her up, never excited her. Then there’s this and...you really want me in this van with you two? You really think it’s good for the Plan, Mike?”

“Yeah, I do.” West sighed. “This is work, important work. And we work well together.”

“Think Cutter’s gonna fit right in with us?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“Who’s your fifth?”

“If we need one...Buchanan really wants to come along. We’ve gone back and forth for a while now and he really thinks he’ll be an asset. We’ll be leaving this place without a leader, though. I mean, Joe will step in but I think Ira is just in it for the adventure.”

“You like a little bit of adventure yourself,” Hitch said.

“What the hell, we’ll need the extra set of hands.” West clapped Hitch on the back. “So let’s go talk to Cutter.”

#

Cutter was a rough customer, all right, but not without reason.

It had been the Year of the Forty-Second Harvest. Another winter Harvest, one in which Cutter had been traveling alone across the Midwest in search of a dreamer community. The last community he’d lived in had been crippled by the previous year’s Harvest, and their numbers were dwindling to nothing. There was nothing more he could do for them. It had been time to save his own skin.

He mostly traveled at night, though he’d begun braving the daylight, what with the harsh weather. The Harvesters and the possibility of their appearance had been the farthest thing from his mind; he was worried about undreamers, and about cannibals, those rumored few who had chosen to live above ground and who had lost their sanity in the process. If, that was, they’d been sane to begin with. He couldn’t imagine.

One morning, sleeping in the remains of a cabin somewhere in rural Ohio, Cutter had been stirred by a noise, a noise that despite its subtlety carried above the howling winds and chilled him to the bone in a way that no wind could.

It was a gentle clinking noise, like chimes. It was the claws of a Harvester.

He’d heard it before, the previous year. The Harvesters, whose frenzied speed required a high metabolic rate, often rested after feeding on victims. Huddled like gargoyles on rooftops and rocks, they sat quietly, the only sound their glassy, foot-long claws clinking together. Cutter believed it was a means of communication, seeing as the Harvesters never made a single sound with their mouths, never roared or screamed or grunted, even in the heights of their killing sprees. The chimes were a way of staying in contact with one another during those periods of respite. And, if stirred, the chimes would suddenly stop, and their raw pink limbs would tense, and their milky-white, pupilless eyes would snap open...

Hearing the chimes, Cutter slowly got to his feet and crept toward the nearest window. Snowflakes drifted down through the rotted ceiling and settled on the blanket draped over his shoulders. He reached down toward the floor and grabbed his rifle.

He looked out upon a barren field, beyond which was a small forest. Not a sign of a single Harvester.

Dammit, how long had they been out there, roaming the countryside? When had they risen from the sea to embark on another hunt? How many times had he unwittingly come within miles – or less – of certain death?

Something moved in the trees.

Cutter raised the rifle to his shoulder and watched, and waited.

A Harvester emerged from the forest. It was moving slowly, with a slight limp. Wounded. He didn’t see any other sign of injury, but he knew he was right. And he knew the Harvester was alone.

Then it saw him.ow

Pushing itself along on tired legs, claws splayed, massive jaw unhinging to reveal rows of razor teeth, the Harvester came. It staggered across the field...then stopped.

It fell to its knees. Planting its claws in the frozen earth, it began to pull itself forward.

Cutter took aim with the rifle and, with fingers numbed by the cold, pulled the trigger.

A hunk of flesh tore away from the Harvester’s shoulder. The creature recoiled, but kept its claws buried in the soil and pulled itself upright again. It struggled forward.

Cutter pulled the trigger again...the hollow click nearly stopped his heart.

He had to have more ammo! He dropped the rifle and searched through his pockets. There, a few stray rounds. He painstakingly loaded the rifle, glancing out the window to see the Harvester making slow but steady progress toward the cabin.

Cutter raised the rifle once more. “Come and get it, bastard. Come on!”

He fired. The creature’s broad chest ruptured, its twin hearts thundering. But the bullet must have missed both, because the damned thing kept coming.

“No!” Cutter cried, his own heart beating hard against his ribs. He fired again, wildly. Missed.

He had one fucking bullet left. It had to be a head shot this time. He had to end it. And to be sure, he had to let the creature get as close as possible.

Cutter fought to hold the rifle steady. He looked into the Harvester’s eyes. Don’t shoot till you see the whites of their eyes, he’d once heard. There was nothing but white in its eyes, a terrible emptiness.

The creature pulled its claws free and summoned all the strength it had, limbs trembling. It prepared to leap at him.

He fired.

The Harvester’s left eye exploded, bits of flesh and skull flying out the back of its head, and it sank down into the snow without a sound.

He didn’t leave the cabin for several days after that. He lay huddled under his blanket, arms wrapped around his useless rifle, and stared up through the broken roof at the snow-bleached sky.

#

“You want me to come along on this suicide mission?” Cutter laughed at West. “What’d I ever do to you?”

“It’s not a suicide mission,” West assured him. “I’ve taken everything into account, taken every possible precaution.”

“And if the Harvesters come?”

“Look, Cutter. I know what happened to you before you got here. I understand your fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” Cutter snapped. “I’m just not a fool.”

“This is our chance to be done with the Harvesters.”

“And what about the undreamers? The bots? The cannibals? What are you going to do about them, wiseguy?”

“The hope is that those problems will resolve themselves once we’ve done this.”

“Yeah,” Cutter snorted. “I see you’ve got everything figured out.” Turning from West, he busied himself assembling torches in the firelight.

Hitch stepped in. “Can I ask you something, Cutter?”

“What’s that?”

“What have you got to lose?”

“Other than my head?” Cutter sighed. “Don’t be taken in by West’s bullshit. You really believe he can stop the Harvesters? Nightmare? You really think that, even if it was possible, Nightmare wouldn’t just send more?”

“It’s worth a try,” Hitch said. “Anything’s worth a try in this hell we live in.”

“Excuse me? I thought you were content to sit down here and map the tunnels. Suddenly we’re in Hell?”

“I—” Hitch looked at West. The doctor nodded.

“I don’t want to live like this anymore,” Hitch said. “I can’t.”

I can’t, because Amanda can’t. And even if she’s not mine anymore, I can’t live with knowing that. Worse, I can’t live with wondering.

What if Mike’s right?

Cutter stared hard at Hitch, as if trying to read his thoughts. What he saw was sincere. Maybe West was trying to sell something, but Hitch had never had much of an ego. His public breakup with what’s-her-face was proof of that.

“What have I got to lose?” Cutter muttered. “This life isn’t much of a life anyway.”

Three. Other Dreams.

It had been the bots’ nanotechnology – the ability to plug into a human body, connect with the mind and interpret brain signals – that had introduced the bots to the entity known as Nightmare, in the Year of the First Harvest.

In Goar Head, Alaska, Bruce and Delmar had been at work breaking down a section of decommissioned UFC pipeline. Out there in the bitter wilderness, they had been focused on their work all day, and were alone with one another - shunned by those who'd only just learned they were bots - when they received a call on the radio from back in town: they were under attack. The seaplane, their only means of escape from the town, had been torn apart. People were dead in the street, and those still alive were holed up in the local tavern.

With no further information, they’d hastened into town. And there, they saw the swarm coming, saw the Harvesters in all their horrible glory.

Using their Gyros, they fought their way into the tavern. Though Bruce hadn’t taken notice at the time, there had been little actual resistance from the Harvesters, who only struck at the bots in defense against their fiery charge. After the frantic barricading of the tavern, the next priority was the mortal wound of a corporate employee. The man was ranting feverishly, as if infected by the razor claws that had pierced him, slipping in and out of consciousness and saying one word again and again: “Nightmare...” And the tremulous inflection of his voice indicated a fear greater than his pain. He seemed to know something, to have gained a fragment of terrible knowledge from his near-fatal brush with the creatures; and Bruce needed to know too.

So he had plugged in with his nanotech. And there the first encounter occurred.

#

It was twilight when Bruce was ready. Seated beside the unconscious man, the synth closed his eyes and disabled his external sensors. He was now alone with this human’s subconscious.

It came to him in a convoluted rush, a mess of blurred images and overlapping sounds that surrounded him in his "mind's eye" as he stood calmly. The storm of sensations began to resolve itself. There was earth beneath Bruce's feet. A warm, whispering wind that pushed clouds across a mountainous horizon. Sunlight from some indistinct point overhead.

Bruce knelt and touched the ground. Even though he was merely translating the man’s electrical impulses within his own positronic brain, it all felt authentic. Remarkable.

But the man himself was not there.

No, a voice said, he isn't. It's just you and me. And what are you?

The voice was a strange, lilting one that seemed to come from all around Bruce. "What are you?" he asked back.

I am...Nightmare.

This is the name Man has given me. I rather like it, though. You see, this dear boy isn't the first human I've made deep contact with. So many of them, in fact, have powers of perception that they don't even realize...

Now, what are you?

"I am one of the dreams of men," Bruce replied.

Clever, came the response.

"He said that they--that you--want dreams. What does that mean?"

Yes, the Harvesters have been sent for the dream-meat, to bring it to us, so that we may dream... so that we might not go MAD in our infinite slumber! To think that humans have the ability to do this, but not the gods!

"You believe yourself a god, then?"

One among many.

"And you're not one of the creatures outside... you merely sent them."

Made them, as Man made you. We slumber far from your world, in the court of chaos. Here, we awaken only to dance our infernal dance around the throne of Azathoth, before our mounting terror--a terror beyond your understanding!--begs a respite...

The respite of dreams...

But I tire of you, machine. Soon we will have this man’s dream-meat, along with the others.

And suddenly Bruce realized what this Nightmare meant by dream-meat--he knew what the Harvesters were after, what they sought to devour.

He tore himself from the human’s subconscious just in time to see a rain of claws tearing through the tavern door.

All this time, Delmar had been sitting prone in a chair by the wall. He sprang into action, throwing his bulk against the barricade and the blindly grasping the hands of the Harvesters and shouting, "Give me a gun, Bruce!"

Then a single claw burst through his head, jutting rudely from one sparking eyeball. Delmar shook and gibbered while the humans screamed.

The synth collapsed against the barricade, which itself began to come apart. Bruce detached himself from the human and drew the Gyros. "Everyone away from the door!"

I'm still here, Nightmare sang in Bruce's head.

"What?" he cried. "How?"

And then Bruce was assailed by a vision, a frequency-jamming transmission from the very heart of chaos, from Nightmare's mind to his own--he saw city streets overrun by Harvesters, mountain roads littered with headless corpses, ships adrift in tossing seas, dead crewmen floating in crimson froth.

Just let them come, machine. The minds of all men will live on in us. You see? Even now, all over your world, the Harvest is taking place. The minds of all men will serve us through eternity.

It was a simple statement, simple and true. And it allowed Bruce to make a simple decision.

The door caved in and the Harvesters forced their way through. Bruce took aim with the Gyros. He wouldn't--couldn't--allow any human mind to suffer in the infinite with these mad gods. It was a fate worse than death.

He emptied both guns.

When it was done, the Harvesters stared blankly at him, claws dragging along the floor, jaws slack. Then they trudged back out into the cold.

Bruce surveyed the scene. He'd hit every intended target. There was no dream-meat remaining for the harvest.

They all looked peaceful there on the floor. He thought he detected the slightest hint of a smile among what little remained of them.

An arm wrapped around his neck and tightened with the brute strength of a python. His feet left the floor, kicking, and he thrashed in the relentless grip, feeling the wall of his throat begin to crack.

"Why?" Cinnamon yelled into his ear. "What have you done? We are made to protect and serve them, not--not--"

"I had to!" Bruce barked. "It was to save them!"

Cinnamon relinquished her hold; he heard her stepping back and kneeling on the floor. Bruce turned, gingerly fingering his neck.

"I don't understand," she said softly, cradling the body of Paulie, her employer, in her arms.

"I'll explain," Bruce said, and, ignoring the screaming in his brain, the wailing and gnashing of the angry gods, he did.

#

Filing away his memory of the account, Bruce said to Delmar, “We need a plan.”

“For what?”

“For Gotham.”

Two. The Others.

Thirty miles east of Gotham, a pack of dogs walked down an empty street in a small town. German Shepherds, they sniffed the air and the ground, moving together, a feral pack perhaps, only too well-groomed and too synchronized with one another to be feral.

No, a hunting party.

The lead dog stopped and stared straight ahead. The others read the cues of its body and halted likewise, following its intent gaze to a manhole in the center of the street.

The manhole cover was ajar. There was the faintest splash from within.

With a low growl, the lead dog stepped forward.

Then, a snapping of fingers.

Without another sound, all the dogs retreated, padding off into an alley and out of sight.

A man stepped out of the alleyway. Across the street, another. And another, and another, and another. Exiting side streets and abandoned buildings, the men hefted enormous handguns, smoothed their coats with their hands and approached the manhole.

Without the slightest twitch of the mouth or shifting of the eye, they communicated.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Gyro, it carries a .55-caliber chemical payload. The firing system, free of primer and powder, allows the chemical payload to remain stable. Gyroscopic system also increases bullet velocity three hundred percent over conventional firearms. The gun will stay balanced in your grip, so don’t attempt to compensate for recoil.

And don’t hesitate. Don’t bother to explain. Shoot to kill.

The lead man stepped over the manhole. He glanced down. All clear.

He dropped into the sewer.

Striking a shallow pool of water, he immediately rolled aside and swept the tunnel for any sign of life. There were ripples up ahead, in another pool, indicating the targets had moved south. As the others entered the tunnel at his back, he ran forward.

There were torches in the walls up ahead. A couple of them appeared to be set lower, in the shadows...they were being held by hands...

The man raised his gun to fire. Before he could, the torches flared blinding white as a magnesium compound was added to the flame.

“I’ve got no visual! Hold your fire!” the man shouted. He shut his eyes and listened intently, filtered out the splashing at his back, focused on what was up ahead. Heard a footfall, calculated the location, taking the environment’s unique acoustics into account, and fired.

There was a scream. A long, wet, human scream. Then silence.

“Go go go!” the man shouted, opening his eyes and seeing the torch go out as it fell in fetid water.

“Bots!!” someone up ahead yelled. A cacophony of screams erupted within the tunnel. The lead man sent a message to his comrades:

Delmar, there’s a junction up ahead. Take the west tunnel. Macendale, your men go east. I’m going straight.

He stumbled as two bullets punched into his chest. The targets had silenced firearms. He listened for footsteps and fired into the darkness.

“Please!” someone cried. “Please leave us alone! Don’t!”

He ignored them and unleashed a hail of chemical rounds. Bursts of flame and shrapnel lit up the junction as he entered. He saw men and women flailing as the meat of their faces was scorched and shredded.

His pack split up. There were more cries, some cut off abruptly. The sound of Gyros cutting through flesh and bone and rock.

A wall up ahead. No, a door. The man crossed his arms in front of his face and plowed through.

In the light of a single torch, he saw a woman huddled over three children, the lot of them wrapped in a filthy blanket.

The woman wept. “Please. Let us live. Just let us live.”

“I can’t allow you to suffer,” the man said, and fired four rounds.

#

The cleanup crew took the dogs down into the tunnels. One of the shepherds was being uncooperative. Smelling the blood on Macendale’s clothing and hands, it whimpered.

“Go on, dog,” Macendale snapped. He grabbed the scruff of its neck and dragged it toward the manhole.

The lead man stopped him. “Macendale.”

“Bruce.”

“Use positive reinforcement.” Bruce removed Macendale’s hand from the animal and knelt. He patted its head. “C’mon now boy. Let’s go. Down there. C’mon!”

He clapped his hands and headed for the manhole. The dog followed him, staying at his side.

“Negative reinforcement is detrimental to their whole training program,” Bruce reminded Macendale. “Use praise. Simulate love and acceptance. You can still be firm, but always remember, respect over fear.”

The other bot nodded curtly.

Delmar walked over to Bruce, thick fingers fumbling across his torso. “I think some of my armor’s loose. This old Army-grade material just isn’t going to hold up any longer.”

“We’ll see what we have back at the base,” Bruce replied. Delmar was a modified military bot, unlike most of the first-gens on Bruce’s team. They were a civilian peacekeeper class that had worked for the United Fuel Cooperative prior to the First Harvest.

Macendale was one of the second-gens, built by the first-gens. Their emotive programming wasn’t quite as mature as that of their parents, but they were still good as infiltrators. Macendale, like many other children, just needed to learn to follow his field training. There was a time and a place for improvisation. A sweep wasn’t it.

Cinnamon came up from the sewer. Bruce gave her a hand as she brushed the scarlet hair from her eyes. He’d asked her why she hadn’t removed the synthetic locks, as most did, and she’d said it complimented her programming. She’d been a personal recreation model, working in a bar up in Alaska in the same Cooperative town as Bruce and Delmar. He conceded that her uniquely human look often gave her an advantage with the targets, even if it was form over function.

“It’s clear down there,” she said. “The bodies are being destroyed.”

“Good work all around. We’ll want to review this one frequently.” Bruce turned and patted the dog’s head again. “Guess we won’t need you down there after all. Good boy.”