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.”