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Mike stared at the ceiling for hours. With a savage groan, he
threw himself at the bathroom for a cold shower. The TriV chimed call waiting.
“Bathroom,” Mike shouted. A unit opened in the wall, and the
tubby little demon in the red devil suit floated in the room.
Ice water running over his head and making his bared teeth
chatter, Mike snapped, “What?”
“Lord and master,” the demon cried, bowing low and spreading a
scarlet cape. “I have the supreme honor of announcing a call awaits you.”
Cindy. Mike grinned and
felt his blood pound hot and roaring through his veins.
“OK.”
The demon zapped himself in the butt with a pitchfork, and a
hologram swelled out of the TriV.
Mike positioned himself for Cindy’s best view of his important
parts.
“Hey, son,” Millie said.
Mike gaped at the woman, and snatched at the towel rack. He slipped
and crashed on the floor with Millie frowning, and her son biting off words she
would still punch him for using.
Towel over his groin, Mike managed a smile.
“Hey, Mom.”
It was late in the afternoon before the Harvesters returned,
laughing and prodding each other. As they neared the truck they fell silent.
Climbing in, the driver slapped the starter and ripped the truck around in the
parking area on squealing tires. An alarm whined, and the truck stalled.
“You got to let it warm first,” the Harvester in the middle
said.
“Shut it, Johnson.” The driver snarled and slapped the starter
again. The oil light came on showing red. It slowly crept up, and as it neared
the green, he stepped on the accelerator, and the truck shot towards the
guard’s post.
The guard waved them on, and the truck roared out into a cloudy
afternoon.
Tendrils of fog moved in from the river, and the lights came on.
"A blond. Wow.”
Scowling, the driver glanced at the guard.
“What?”
“How could you afford a blonde? I bet she cost a mint.”
A grin started on the driver’s face. It changed and he shrugged.
“Harrison give me a fifty not to take the stiff.” He laughed,
but it was hollow. Reaching down, he tapped the heater. “Verdamned thing must
be busted.”
“It’s runnin’ full-out.”
The men fell silent. With a hiss, the radio snapped and muttered
at them.
“The Center, again?”
With a groan, he glanced at the sky. Shaking his head at the
inequities of life, he said to the radio, “Let another unit get it. It’s
quitting time.”
“This been waiting since ten, jerk-off.” The radio hissed
again. “Five long-pig. Jumped the rail. Easy stuff.”
The driver scowled and glanced at the sky again. Clouds covered
the sun, and the sky was darkening fast.
“But–“
The radio died.
Frowning, he turned the truck and a few blocks later pulled around
the Center on 13th Street and through a check point, then backed into
an open bay.
Sliding out, he jumped onto the dock to roll up the door. Frigid
air wafted around his legs, chilling the air of the docks even more. Mist crept
from the back. The shriveled eyes of corpses stared at him. The big blond one
still lay on top of the pile.
Frowning, the Harvester jumped and shuddered when a man spoke.
He spun to see day-glow orange suits coming down the dock, two per
body and a trustee, carrying stripped corpses.
The convicts threw the bodies in and stepped back. Eyes dulled by
hunger, lean faces glanced away from the loss of meat. The straw boss touched
the collar around his neck. He stepped back, and the other ten shuffled after
him.
In the truck, the driver pulled away. He stopped at the guard
shack.
“Man,” the Center guard said, handing the driver a clipboard.
“You guy got the life o’ Riley. Good pay, bennies, all the dope you need.”
He winked. “And meat.”
The driver grunted. He took the clipboard to sign for the corpses
and tossed it at the guard before the van roared away.
The sun touched the horizon and shot one last beam of light,
hitting the back of the truck before the clouds closed in again. Mist slid up
from manholes and drains to move over the streets.
At the gates, they signed in before taking the truck back through
guard posts and the tree-lined miles down to the reclamation center.
“It’s pretty up here, you know?” the second Harvester said.
“My old lady brings the kids. They like the lions.”
“And you’re an ape.” The driver grinned to show he meant no
offence.
He pulled into a dock, and the three crawled out smiling with
relief.
At the rear, the driver jerked on the door. It rattled but
didn’t move. He tried again, heaving at it. The second man joined him but the
door remained stuck.
“Hey, Murf,” the driver called to their guard. “Help me,
will ya?”
“I ain’t a body snatcher,” Murf said, scowling. He tapped
the symbol of a hammer under the recycling symbol of the Harvesters. “All
I’m supposed to do is make sure the creeps don’t keep the meat for
themselves.”
Chong was pressed against the inner wall of the shack. A short
throwing blade was in one hand, the cold length of blackened steel pressed too
tightly against his inner wrist and arm. The needle tip was red with blood.
The rusted knob shifted, the decades-old bolt drawing back with a
small rasp. The door creaked and opened an inch allowing an eddy of damp air.
The harsh racket of Tecneeque’s angry style of Rock-&-Rap music came with
it. The knife moved up. Chong held his breath. A small ball bounced into the
single room. A light flashed from it. Even through closed eyes it was blinding
and white.
Chong crouched on the floor with an arm over his eyes. Someone
stepped in. He flipped the knife in his hand and came up behind the person.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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