Dead Harvest

the pale glow of the television. The easy chair was gone; in its place sat a tangled mess of splintered wood and rent fabric, littered with tape and gauze and paper towels, the whole of which was streaked with blood.

  'Oh, good – you're up. You had me worried for a while, there.'

  'What...' My tongue felt like it was filled with sand. 'What happened to the chair?'

  'You sort of broke it when you started shaking. You're lucky you didn't hurt yourself any further. It wasn't easy dragging your ass to the couch, by the way – but I figured we had to get that leg elevated or it'd just keep on bleeding.'

  'What time is it?'

  'Almost noon,' she replied. 'Speaking of, are you hungry? This guy doesn't have much that isn't growing fuzz, but there's cereal, and the milk's still good.'

  'I'm not really very hungry,' I replied. As I said it, though, I realized I was lying – my stomach was an empty, gnawing pit, and I couldn't remember the last time I had anything to eat. 'On second thought, I think I will take some.'

  Kate headed for the kitchen, returning with a heaping bowl of some God-awful looking pink-and-red marshmellowy concoction, floating atop a sloshing bit of milk. 'What the hell is this?' I asked.

  'Franken Berry!'

  'I thought you said there was food.'

  'Just eat it, it's good.'

  I took one hesitant bite. I had to admit, it was pretty damn tasty. The second bite was a lot less hesitant. Before long, the bowl was empty, and I was feeling a whole lot better. My leg still ached like crazy, but the pain was of a more manageable sort, and thanks to the food, my head was clearing, and I could feel the strength returning to my abused limbs.

  For the first time since coming to, the television caught my attention. It was tuned to CNN, and the sound was down so low, I couldn't make out what they were saying. The image, though, was clear enough: a well-dressed woman, mic in hand, standing at the corner of Park and Forty-second, the massive pillars of Grand Central Terminal jutting skyward behind her. The street around her was littered with shards of glass and bits of debris, and behind her was a massive, open-sided tent overflowing with injured men, women, and children, all being tended to by uniformed EMTs. The great arched windows of the main concourse had been shattered, and the columns streaked with soot. Blackened bits of window frame twisted outward from the building like some horrible, creeping vine. Yellow police barriers set a perimeter around the station, and cops manned them at regular intervals, trying in vain to keep the throng of onlookers at bay. Nearest the building, three fire engines and a handful of smaller fire-and- rescue vehicles sat crookedly, half on, half off of the sidewalk. Scraps of singed paper tumbled through the frame like autumn leaves.

  'What happened there?' I asked.

  'Some kind of explosion,' Kate said. 'Terrorists, they think. All the networks are covering it.'

  'Turn it up.'

  'At least they've stopped showing my picture every five minutes, right?'

  'Kate, turn the TV up.'

  The woman's voice filled the apartment. '… authorities still have no idea what motivated the attack – which has left twenty dead so far, and dozens more injured – but they believe that this man, seen entering the area moments before the blast, may have been involved.' The image of the reporter was replaced with a still from a security camera of a trench-coated man of average height and weight, his features obscured as if by some odd, internal light. 'Despite his apparent proximity to the detonation site, it appears the man may not have perished in the blast, as several eyewitnesses claim they saw him fleeing the terminal in the ensuing confusion. Authorities declined to comment at this time, pending further review of the security footage, but anyone who recognizes this man is urged to call…'

  But her words were lost to me. Instead, I was focused on the medical tent at the edge of the screen. A man, clearly dazed, had been stretchered into the tent, and was being examined by a doc at the scene. His tattered left arm draped awkwardly off the side of the stretcher, and his clothes were singed black, but otherwise he appeared intact.

  As his head lolled toward the camera, I had a flicker of recognition that confirmed what I'd been worried about since the scene first caught my eye.

  'Christ,' I said, 'it's already begun.'

  'What, Sam?' Confusion twisted Kate's features into a scowl. 'What's begun?'

  'War.'

24.

'Get your things,' I said. 'We're going.'

  'Sam, what the hell are you talking about? Where, exactly, are we going?'

  'There,' I said, nodding toward the TV.

  'Are you out of your mind? Set aside the fact that you just lost a lot of blood, and shouldn't be going anywhere but to bed – half the cops in the city are there!'

  'Half the cops, sure, and every looky-loo in town. You really think they're gonna notice two more?'

  I dragged my ass off of the couch and limped over to the TV set, clicking it off. My leg hurt like a motherfucker, and set my teeth on edge, but the bandages held. It'd get me where I needed to go.

  'C'mon, Sam, you're in no shape–'

  'This isn't a debate, Kate. We're going.'