Story originally written as a response at r/WritingPrompts (u/PrimitivePrism)
Prompt:
You were a bit confused why a local farmer recruited so many people for “Harvest Day” but the pay was good so you signed up. Your concern grew when you arrived and saw the farmer handing out rifles and body armor.
Response:
“I…I…uh…” I stared at the assault rifle that had just been placed into my hands. It felt as heavy as a bar of lead.
“You what?” asked Jenkins.
“Was kinda expecting a sickle is all.”
“A sickle?” From his lined, weather-beaten face I couldn’t tell if he was about to laugh or spit into the dirt in disgust. “Haven’t used those for harvestin’ in decades. Ain’t you harvested before? Thought you said you did when you called ’bout my ad.”
“I mean, I have worked the fields in harvest season, Mr. Jenkins. I wasn’t lying.”
“It’s Farmer Jenkins, son. I don’t go by Mister round here, okay? Just Jenkins is better. Or Al.”
“Sure, but–“
“Yo Albert! You want ’em in these now?”
“Yeah, get em suited up,” said Jenkins with a wave. The grizzled, wiry farmhand who’d just spoken, Stoopy–that’s what everyone called him–tossed me a concave, torso-sized object, pitted with curious round indents and hung with thick straps. It almost knocked me off my feet as I caught it. Thing weighed a ton.
“You know how to get that on?” asked Stoopy, his face grave, cold. “You said you been harvestin’ right? Heard you tellin’ these boys you got lotsa experience from when you was a teen. That right?”
“I…I’ve harvested–“
Stoopy’s eyes shot over to a young guy a stone’s throw from us, the latter absorbed in a video call on his phone. “Oy, Billy Boy, get your fuckin’ Kevlar on, yeah? No more tongue waggin’.” He tossed another bundle of breast plates, along with arm shields, shin guards and helmets onto the ground, unloading the back of the pickup truck as fast he could.
“Mr. Jenki–er, Al!” I cried, running up to the farmer. He tossed me a magazine as I approached him, which I nearly dropped my rifle in the process of catching.
“Those things’ll take down a charging grizzly, they will. Blow a hole right through its skull. Ain’t grizzly bears we’re going up against, though. You just try to get ’em in the head. Neck’ll work too. Wanna preserve the innards, understand? It’s for nothing if we can’t get the innards out intact and all. Wasting the crops iff’n you do that, boy.”
“The crops? What?”
“Big buyers, kid. Big big buyers. Ain’t like your daddy and granddaddy’s day when we just shipped the parts down to Boston. Nuh uh. These overseas buyers ain’t so picky, and they pay. Couple more harvest seasons after this one and I’ll be retirin’ for good. Find myself on a nice beach down where the water’s clear as glass.”
“Are you saying we–“
“I say a lotta things don’ I? This is my farm and I say whatever I want. Now git yer fuckin’ armor on and load that gun. Don’t know how to load it, get Stoopy or one of the other boys. You know how to point the damn thing I’m sure. Pull a trigger? You can do it. Just like your video games. But don’t you take any belly or chest shots, boy. Leg’s fine. Take ’em down, then a bullet in the head. Rest of ’em back there’ll do the cutting, and you just move on and take more–“
“Albert Jenkins,” I said, leveling the gun at him. “You tell me right goddamn now what we’re going to be killing with these things.”
“That ain’t loaded you idiot.”
“Sure as hell is. Brought my own bullets to this party.”
“I ain’t gonna try callin’ your bluff, boy, ’cause there’s no bluff to call. Jesus. You’re pretending you don’t know what all this here is about?”
“Are we hunting people? Are you telling me we’re going to hunt people for…for their organs?”
Jenkin’s regarded me coldly for a moment, then a smile broke across his ancient features, the wrinkles running across his face by the dozens.
“Stoopy!” he called “Hey Stoopy! Kid thinks we’re hunting those guys. Ah ha ha ha!”
I didn’t know what I was hearing in that first instant, when there was a sharp crackle from the top of the hill, the one with the one dead tree that loomed atop it like a skeletal hand bursting from the weedy earth. The hill that divided us from Ferndale. I only comprehended that they were gunshots when the first bullets kicked up the earth around us. Suddenly the crowd, all fifty or more of the hired harvesters, erupted into chaos.
“Armor on now, now!” roared Jenkins, and jabbed a gnarled finger at me. “Load your empty fuckin’ gun you asshole.”
“What is this!” I screamed, barely able to hear myself in the blasts of gunfire now coming from all around me. Our harvesters fired back at the figures charging over the crest of the hill–from the Ferndale side–and down toward us, guns blazing.
“Every year someone’s gotta get harvested,” shouted Stoopy. “And we make sure there’s less of those someones on our side than theirs. Those overseas markets, they don’t care where the lungs n’ kidneys come from. You understand? It’s us that gotta make sure that shipment is Ferndale gut–“
He never finished what he was saying. A bullet from the hillside blew half his head off, painting the lawn with his brains.
I stared, mind going blank for only a split second before the panic took over. I had no idea how to load the weapon in my hands.
But Stoopy’s looked ready to go.
I ran over and tore the assault rifle from his death grip. His hands still warm. His body still warm. And then I knew I’d never let Ferndale get his heart.
