Mark Dunn - Under the Harrow

“How on earth did you get here?” asked Mrs. Lumbey.

“We all hiked in at one time or another,” said the first man.

“To see the aliens,” said the woman. And then brightening:“Are you one?”

Upon reaching the Summit of Exchange, Phillips and the Senator saw that which at first glimpse could only be thought to be some sort of magician’s mirage — a diabolical illusion of death and carnage such as one would produce to shew a battlefield in its quiet, elegiac aftermath. But this was no proscenium concoction, no grand sculptural tribute to human depravity. What lay spread out before the blinking, disbelieving eyes of the two men was real — as real as the flies that buzzed and flitted among the fresh corpses. Here lay not soldiers, fallen upon their guns and swords, but men and women and children, riddled with bullets and pierced and bludgeoned, crumpled one upon another in odd configurations of twisted, twining limbs, some with frozen, horror-stricken gazes, each bathed and streaked and mottled with deep red blood — their own blood shed together in the suddenness of their fall.

Phillips felt himself choking at the sight, and even the Senator, being no stranger to death from his life spent as soldier and criminal lawyer, had never witnessed anything to match the wholesale butchery evinced in this place. And so he stepped back, and so he held his hand to his mouth in involuntary, incredulous revulsion. What was even more incredible about the scene was the fact that amongst all the dead bodies was one man who was very much alive. He was a young man, and he wore uniform drabs that mimicked in their grey and green blotched pattern the look of forest foliage — a solitary man performing the solitary task of putting leaden bodies into barrows. The man, who was quite young — not much older than his late teens — turned to see his two visitors standing at the other end of the killing place.

He dropt the body that he had been tugging, which had earlier been enlivened by the soul of Mr. Skettles, the apothecary, and quickly drew his gun.

“Who are you? How’d you get here?”

“We came up through the compound,” lied Phillips. He took a deep breath through his nose in an attempt to calm himself so that he could better put forth the counterfeit necessary to preserve his life and the life of his companion. “Flatiron sent us.”

“Well, I knew you couldn’t have come up from the valley because we’ve got men guarding the barrow trail.”

“No, we didn’t come from the valley. We came up from the compound,” repeated Phillips.

“Flatiron.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you here to do a count? It’s eighty-two. It was supposed to be eighty-three but somebody must have changed their mind at the last minute.”

“I see,” said Phillips, nodding his head slowly and thoughtfully to look appropriately administrative. “And how is the mop-up going? Why are you undertaking this task by yourself? You were supposed to have help.”

“Do ya think ?” said the young man with undisguised rancor.“The story I’m getting is that all my fucking help got reassigned to the South Sector.”

“What happened to the contingent of shooters that were already detailed to that sector?”

The young man relaxed and lowered his gun. “A couple of them bailed, I think. Cold feet. Something. Only two hours before Diluvian.”

“But when was this exactly?”

“I don’t know. Forty-five minutes ago, maybe.”

Phillips consulted his watch. By his calculation, there was now roughly one hour and fifteen minutes until release of the floodwaters.

“Anyway, I’ll get some help later. I mean, I have to. Some of these fuckers must weigh three-hundred pounds. What kind of lard-ass meals do these fatso Dinglian dudes eat, anyway?”

“Some of them have been known to eat quite well,” said Phillips. “What’s your name?”

“McIntyre. But look, I just want you to know: I’m not complaining. I got the best seat in the house for the main attraction. I mean, check it out. It’s gonna be awesome. And yeah, I guess I’d like to be down there, you know, picking off the survivors, but I’m on probation. I mean, they didn’t say I was on probation, but I know I am.”

“What did you do?”

“I guess you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“They say I’m the one who got Andrews killed — the guy we lost when we took out the nurse and those other two dudes. They say I shouldn’t have left Andrews to deal with the wack job by himself — the one who went all postal. I mean, what the fuck was that ? Thinking he could take us on with — I mean what was that — a Swiss Army knife or something? I was, like, just shoot the three of them in the heads and get it over with, but no, it had to be a fucking stealth job. And now Andrews is dead and I’m hauling bodies in wheelbarrows like some kind of a, like, custodial worker, or something.”

“The desire to survive can be strong,” said Phillips. “Especially among these people.”

“Whatever.”

So this was one of the men who killed Ruth, thought Phillips. The role he had decided to play was becoming an even greater challenge. He tasted bile. He swallowed.

“Who’s this dude?” asked McIntyre, indicating the Senator with a jerk of the head. “He looks familiar.”

“He should be familiar,” replied Phillips. “He signs your paychecks.”

“Yeah, okay. I guess that means helping me with these bodies is probably gonna be a little above your pay grade.”

Phillips looked away, as if pretending that such a statement didn’t deserve a response.

At just that moment there came a sound that commanded the attention of all three men: a pronounced rustle behind a hedge of shrubbery just beyond the gazebo. McIntyre put a finger to his lips to signal silence. He stepped over the bodies to place himself next to Phillips and the Senator. “Looks like we got us a little company,” he said in a low voice. “Are you packing?”

“ I am,” said Phillips, drawing out a small Outland revolver. The Senator, having no knowledge that Phillips had been carrying a firearm all along, gave the jeweller a look of contained surprise.

“Good,” said the young cadaver-remover, raising his pistol to his chest. “You go left and I’ll go right. Probably just a fawn — there are a lot of deer up here — but you can’t take any chances.”

Phillips nodded and did as he had been instructed, moving off in the opposite direction. The Senator, unarmed and feeling slightly vulnerable, decided to stay where he was.

It was McIntyre who noticed her first: Alice Trimmers, crouched behind the shrubbery. “Stand up!” he barked. “Step away from the bushes!”

Alice pulled herself tremblingly to her feet.

“Step out. Shew yourself. Hurry up.”

Alice stepped out from behind the greenery that had not done such a very good job of concealing her. With great difficulty she produced the beseeching words, “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Who are you?” asked the young man.

“A-A-Alice Tr-Trimmers,” stuttered Alice.

“Are you the eighty-third?” Over his shoulder to Phillips: “ Here’s your eighty-third, Suit.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Alice.

“The man is asking,” interposed Phillips, “if you are the last of those who were supposed to come to the Summit to-day.”

“I don’t know.”

“How can you not know, young lady? Either you’re supposed to be up here or you aren’t.”

“What are you going to do to me?”