María J. Estrada
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to dialogue, people, places, and events are purely coincidental and the work of the author’s hyperactive imagination. Any similarities to events or individuals, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018
Dr. María J. Estrada
All rights reserved. No part of this book or any of its content may be reproduced or distributed in any form or medium, without prior written permission of the author. Short quotes and academic usage are the exception. The author must be credited in such instances.
The Harvested: A Novel
a novel by María J. Estrada
Chapter 1: Ashley Packer
My mother hands me an old gallon container. This one is grey without a filter. I look out the window and see no Red Guards on the street. No Guards means no Harvest. Most of the time.
“Now, Ashley,” says my mother, as if I haven’t been doing this run since I was six years old. “Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t stay out in the sun too long. If you hear the sirens, run to the old bunker.
“Just last week, Mrs. Shannon’s boy was harvested right before he got to his safe spot. You can’t hide here during harvest.” Her faded grey eyes are still beautiful, and I want to trace that deep indentation with my finger, but caring too much is a sign of weakness.
“Mom.” I sigh looking at her weary face. She is leaner than I remember with ever graying hair and perpetual orange stains on her hands and face from the meat processing plant. Her hair is a knot over her head with nothing holding it tight but a wispy strand of her own fading hair. I want to give her a biting remark, as really, I should outrank her because I am more productive now, but instead I smile and say, “Don’t worry Mom. I’m the fastest runner in my class and besides, there was just a harvest yesterday.”
Mom hesitates like she wants to tell me something, but even plant workers are not supposed to talk about their trade, and I am always suspicious of the packing plants. I live in Packer Town, one of the suburbs outside the city. Most of the people in Packer Town work in the packing plants.
“Just be careful.” She gives me an unusually long hug. “Remember—“
I clamp my hand over her mouth like I used to as a toddler and say in a robotic tone, “‘Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.’” But safe doesn’t mean immunity from the Harvest, but dangerous anti-government ideas.
I take my hand off her worried face. “I got the red ribbon again this month. I will be safe.” It’s true. I have gotten the red ribbon award for being productive, accountable, and punishing those who are not true patriots. I am safe.
I step out into the harsh glaring sun wearing a large Panama hat. Panama was once a country, and that is all they tell us in school. I walk confidently because running is suspect, but I manage to walk 3.5 miles an hour like I have purpose, when my only purpose is to get clean water.
Half way down the street, my heart freezes. The sirens begin softly, like an old song you can’t forget, and then the sound rises to a near-immobilizing pitch. I check to see if guards are around and run, making sure not to drop the gallon. I wonder where everyone is or if someone got an underground notice I didn’t
I crash hard into an old man. It’s the homeless man who has been avoiding harvest since I was a little girl. Old Hope, I call him. He’s too old to be processed, but I always wonder what they do with old spare meat or old people in general. I don’t ever want to find out.
For a moment, we both have the same impulse. Though I am only twelve, I am strong and lethal. I have learned fifteen ways of killing someone, two with my bare hands. I could maim him or at least stun him, so he will be left behind. But instead, we both get up and run in opposite directions. I guess we are not productive citizens after all. I head down Victory Road toward the retiree compound. She will be waiting for me, my old friend, Mrs. Jenkens.
I look quickly to my right and see a red squad of four viscous women beating a young boy down. He is unusually fat for the neighborhood and is overburdened with water jugs. Water jugs! I only carry one, and although I can lift 40 pounds easily, the empty container seems to weigh more than anything. To my left a grey volunteer emerges out of nowhere and grabs for my right arm, but I offer a swift punch to her throat and easily scamper away into Mrs. Jenkens’ apartment. Maybe she will get it, even though she volunteers. I despise volunteers. They are normal women who can’t afford genetic modifications, unfortunate women who couldn’t find a patron. Still, that doesn’t give them the right to harvest us. Especially not me.
I am a girl with high prospects.
I look for any squad member that might be lurking about. Hiding from the squads inside our homes once the harvest starts is unacceptable; that tracking is possible because the census software at home tracks my arm-port. One must be accountable. Being hidden in others’ homes is also dangerous, but Mrs. Jenkens doesn’t care what the neighbors think. She doesn’t care if she gets sent to the processing plant, if that is where they go. I really don’t think she cares about anything but our weekly meetings.
“Thought I was going to have to get out there with my shotgun.” She chuckles.
She sits by the window, unafraid of gunfire. I know she has been waiting for me because she is holding the old history book in her hand, the one with all the pages in it. There is the familiar smell of green tea and black-market biscuits. I spy them on the table and besides the adrenaline rush, I feel a strong surge of hunger. I wonder how much they cost her; in the market, non-meat products run astronomically high. Last month, I traded a whole leg of dog and two bananas for Mom’s sanitary products. Mom never said where she got the leg. Dogs are rare and bananas even more so. I give Mrs. Jenkens a sincere grin and know better than to pester her for details.
“Oh please,” I answer catching my breath. “You wouldn’t last a millisecond. Out there,” I point and breathe out, “with your broken hip.”
I try not to stare at the bright orange shawl she wears that matches her orange feline fur. “Or that ‘kill me’ flag you have on.” Only Mrs. Jenkens favors them over the military style uniform retirees wear. Today, the woman sports a knee-high pink dress which makes absolutely no sense and clashes against her intense blue eyes and ugly shawl. Her cat-like ears flicker back. I know they are her playful ears.
“Hmm,” I admonish with mock-disapproval, “trying to get arrested with those clothes?”
Taking my gallon, she walks with the step of a young girl into the kitchen, despite her slight hobble. “Bah, no one cares about a woman over fifty. I don’t taste good anyway.” She winks at me and swishes her tail. It is long and graceful, like the tails on our neighborhood cats that run rampant. Mrs. Jenkens like patroned girls in her time would do outrageous genetic modifications like this. A hybrid cat woman. I thank the heavens that quickly went out of style.
“Don’t you mean sixty?” I say. A loud bang makes me head for the kitchen but not too quickly. After all, we are trained to be unafraid of death.
When I enter Mrs. Jenkens has the gallon filled to the brim. I never ask how, but she always has water. Always has enough, but then, she lives alone.
“Two liters, not worth the risk,” says the woman. “You should go out on Sundays and with your escort, a c-ervant would be prime.”
I snort. “Mom stopped renting it. Besides, she doesn’t have the money to have me engineered, again. Not that they’ll take me.” I pause and look over my shoulder. “I still can’t eat government protein. I tried again this morning. Doc B says it’s the enzyme, but she hasn’t reported me. She can’t run the test to figure out what is wrong with me. It costs so much money, and Mom is already in-debt from the internal mods I have.” I stare at her, fur and claws. “Mrs. J, are you sure the meat doesn’t come from the harvested? Is it human meat? Tell me.” I always ask her the same questions, and she always answers the same.
“No way. That’s just a rumor to keep people more afraid. People are harvested for organs and whatever the government needs. Most people are intact and become human servants, especially children. Sometimes, they get adopted. Girls, of course.”
I give her a skeptical look. “Right, Mrs. J. Intact. What do they need human servants for if they have c-ervants? And kids like us, we’re expendable.” Almost everyone I have seen harvested is a bloody mess.
“Beatrice is a good woman,” she says switching the subject. “She was one of my students once, before all this—” she waves her arm around like a cat might paw at yarn. “You’re so tall.”
“What?” I ask.
“You’re so tall and smart. I’m worried someone will want to patron you, sooner than your finals.” She looks out the small kitchen window. “Then, I won’t see you anymore.” Early patronage is rare; patronage starts when a girl is 16, usually, but some girls are more adept, and I have been hiding some of my skills.
I give her a knowing look. “No one will take me. You know that. It’s too expensive to feed someone who can’t eat government meat. Anyway.”
“Oh,” she says, “I wish you could get out of Packer Town. The world is different out there, and you would thrive.”
I nod, not understand what she means. As far as I can tell, the world is as Packer Town, dying.
The sirens end, and the announcer reports, “There will be no more gatherings for thirty-six hours. Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.”
“Liars. Liars. Liars,” I say in the same robotic voice. “This is the third harvest in two weeks. Do you think we are going to war again?”
Mrs. Jenkins gives me a squeeze. “We’re always at war. Now, go take this to your mother and come back fast.” She hands me a small pouch. “Go before they have time to search you. Plant this in the rooftop like I taught you. Be sure no one sees.”
“Ah Mrs. J, everyone has a rooftop garden hidden under solar tarps.”
“Yeah, but not for girls. Now hurry along!” she yowls at me playfully and swats at my head.
I know she is right. The gardens are to grow food for boys, the lucky boys who have brave parents. My mother jokes that the extra food is to fatten them for the harvest, but she is bitter having lost two sons by the time her sons were sixteen. I never got to meet them, so they don’t mean much to me, but she still mourns them, even though truly, she doesn’t know what became of them.
I walk nimbly, avoiding strangers. No telling who might steal my water or worse, says Mrs. J, but I am not sure what worse is, yet. I have seen young boys being raped in the alley and dead people starved to death or strangers shot by regular citizens. Once, I saw a woman selling her male baby on the street corner, and I held my tears all the way home. We are not supposed to cry for boys.
“Hey,” says a raspy voice. It is Guadalupe Ramirez or as I like to call him Alan. Boys are given their mother or a matriarch’s name and father’s last name. It’s cute for most mothers to do that, but his mother hates him. That is part of the reason I call him Alan, after his father. Girls take their mother’s last names, which usually has to do with their profession. My family has lived in the suburbs as packing house workers as long as I remember. My eyes rest on Alan’s grimace, and he bows his head and looks at his cheap shoes.
He is my age and in the same class. He has the most brilliant smile with strong white teeth. It’s the only thing that is strong in his body. His dark brown hair is cropped short with highlights from overexposure to the sun. Most boys in the neighborhood have dark skin and black eyes. He has unusually blue eyes, and I wonder if somewhere along the way, the gender got botched up. His smile warms me to the core, and for a moment, I forget the ugly harvest.
I wave, then think better of it and scowl. “Carry this for me, boy.”
Alan looks up and frowns, but takes the jug. “Humbly, oh great one.”
We both giggle, and I pace two feet ahead of him, which isn’t hard because today he is wheezing so loud, anyone can probably hear him way down at the processing plant. He wears an ugly shirt with some red flowers and patched up blue jeans.
“Glad you weren’t harvested,” I say, pointing at his shirt.
“You and me both. Mom dressed me this morning and sent me out, though I could barely breath. When the sirens went off, I hid under the old resistance bunker. ”
I am furious. Even if he is sick, she has no right. Boys, especially lowborn boys, are not allowed to wear red. That is a color of honor, one I wear often but am not partial to. Everywhere there is red: red cameras, red advertisements, red screen ads. Red sidewalks stained with blood.
“Next time, lose the shirt and say some girl tore it off your back,” I urge him.
“And get sun burned? Or skin cancer?” He hands me a jug, bows, and continues onto his flat.
“Hey, boy! Where is your shit suit?” I ask because I just noticed he has no protection. Most girls’ skin is genetically modified to bear the sun’s deadly rays, but not boys, at least not boys in our neighborhood.
He shrugs his shoulder. “Mom sold it to buy lard and some flour.”
“See you at school,” I say. I turn back to look at him; he is walking with a limp in his left foot. I gaze upward and note how the hair on the back of his head is near white, bleached from the sun.
I am glad to be a girl with high prospects.
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to dialogue, people, places, and events are purely coincidental and the work of the author’s hyperactive imagination. Any similarities to events or individuals, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018
Dr. María J. Estrada
All rights reserved. No part of this book or any of its content may be reproduced or distributed in any form or medium, without prior written permission of the author. Short quotes and academic usage are the exception. The author must be credited in such instances.
The Harvested: A Novel
a novel by María J. Estrada
Chapter 1: Ashley Packer
My mother hands me an old gallon container. This one is grey without a filter. I look out the window and see no Red Guards on the street. No Guards means no Harvest. Most of the time.
“Now, Ashley,” says my mother, as if I haven’t been doing this run since I was six years old. “Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t stay out in the sun too long. If you hear the sirens, run to the old bunker.
“Just last week, Mrs. Shannon’s boy was harvested right before he got to his safe spot. You can’t hide here during harvest.” Her faded grey eyes are still beautiful, and I want to trace that deep indentation with my finger, but caring too much is a sign of weakness.
“Mom.” I sigh looking at her weary face. She is leaner than I remember with ever graying hair and perpetual orange stains on her hands and face from the meat processing plant. Her hair is a knot over her head with nothing holding it tight but a wispy strand of her own fading hair. I want to give her a biting remark, as really, I should outrank her because I am more productive now, but instead I smile and say, “Don’t worry Mom. I’m the fastest runner in my class and besides, there was just a harvest yesterday.”
Mom hesitates like she wants to tell me something, but even plant workers are not supposed to talk about their trade, and I am always suspicious of the packing plants. I live in Packer Town, one of the suburbs outside the city. Most of the people in Packer Town work in the packing plants.
“Just be careful.” She gives me an unusually long hug. “Remember—“
I clamp my hand over her mouth like I used to as a toddler and say in a robotic tone, “‘Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.’” But safe doesn’t mean immunity from the Harvest, but dangerous anti-government ideas.
I take my hand off her worried face. “I got the red ribbon again this month. I will be safe.” It’s true. I have gotten the red ribbon award for being productive, accountable, and punishing those who are not true patriots. I am safe.
I step out into the harsh glaring sun wearing a large Panama hat. Panama was once a country, and that is all they tell us in school. I walk confidently because running is suspect, but I manage to walk 3.5 miles an hour like I have purpose, when my only purpose is to get clean water.
Half way down the street, my heart freezes. The sirens begin softly, like an old song you can’t forget, and then the sound rises to a near-immobilizing pitch. I check to see if guards are around and run, making sure not to drop the gallon. I wonder where everyone is or if someone got an underground notice I didn’t
I crash hard into an old man. It’s the homeless man who has been avoiding harvest since I was a little girl. Old Hope, I call him. He’s too old to be processed, but I always wonder what they do with old spare meat or old people in general. I don’t ever want to find out.
For a moment, we both have the same impulse. Though I am only twelve, I am strong and lethal. I have learned fifteen ways of killing someone, two with my bare hands. I could maim him or at least stun him, so he will be left behind. But instead, we both get up and run in opposite directions. I guess we are not productive citizens after all. I head down Victory Road toward the retiree compound. She will be waiting for me, my old friend, Mrs. Jenkens.
I look quickly to my right and see a red squad of four viscous women beating a young boy down. He is unusually fat for the neighborhood and is overburdened with water jugs. Water jugs! I only carry one, and although I can lift 40 pounds easily, the empty container seems to weigh more than anything. To my left a grey volunteer emerges out of nowhere and grabs for my right arm, but I offer a swift punch to her throat and easily scamper away into Mrs. Jenkens’ apartment. Maybe she will get it, even though she volunteers. I despise volunteers. They are normal women who can’t afford genetic modifications, unfortunate women who couldn’t find a patron. Still, that doesn’t give them the right to harvest us. Especially not me.
I am a girl with high prospects.
I look for any squad member that might be lurking about. Hiding from the squads inside our homes once the harvest starts is unacceptable; that tracking is possible because the census software at home tracks my arm-port. One must be accountable. Being hidden in others’ homes is also dangerous, but Mrs. Jenkens doesn’t care what the neighbors think. She doesn’t care if she gets sent to the processing plant, if that is where they go. I really don’t think she cares about anything but our weekly meetings.
“Thought I was going to have to get out there with my shotgun.” She chuckles.
She sits by the window, unafraid of gunfire. I know she has been waiting for me because she is holding the old history book in her hand, the one with all the pages in it. There is the familiar smell of green tea and black-market biscuits. I spy them on the table and besides the adrenaline rush, I feel a strong surge of hunger. I wonder how much they cost her; in the market, non-meat products run astronomically high. Last month, I traded a whole leg of dog and two bananas for Mom’s sanitary products. Mom never said where she got the leg. Dogs are rare and bananas even more so. I give Mrs. Jenkens a sincere grin and know better than to pester her for details.
“Oh please,” I answer catching my breath. “You wouldn’t last a millisecond. Out there,” I point and breathe out, “with your broken hip.”
I try not to stare at the bright orange shawl she wears that matches her orange feline fur. “Or that ‘kill me’ flag you have on.” Only Mrs. Jenkens favors them over the military style uniform retirees wear. Today, the woman sports a knee-high pink dress which makes absolutely no sense and clashes against her intense blue eyes and ugly shawl. Her cat-like ears flicker back. I know they are her playful ears.
“Hmm,” I admonish with mock-disapproval, “trying to get arrested with those clothes?”
Taking my gallon, she walks with the step of a young girl into the kitchen, despite her slight hobble. “Bah, no one cares about a woman over fifty. I don’t taste good anyway.” She winks at me and swishes her tail. It is long and graceful, like the tails on our neighborhood cats that run rampant. Mrs. Jenkens like patroned girls in her time would do outrageous genetic modifications like this. A hybrid cat woman. I thank the heavens that quickly went out of style.
“Don’t you mean sixty?” I say. A loud bang makes me head for the kitchen but not too quickly. After all, we are trained to be unafraid of death.
When I enter Mrs. Jenkens has the gallon filled to the brim. I never ask how, but she always has water. Always has enough, but then, she lives alone.
“Two liters, not worth the risk,” says the woman. “You should go out on Sundays and with your escort, a c-ervant would be prime.”
I snort. “Mom stopped renting it. Besides, she doesn’t have the money to have me engineered, again. Not that they’ll take me.” I pause and look over my shoulder. “I still can’t eat government protein. I tried again this morning. Doc B says it’s the enzyme, but she hasn’t reported me. She can’t run the test to figure out what is wrong with me. It costs so much money, and Mom is already in-debt from the internal mods I have.” I stare at her, fur and claws. “Mrs. J, are you sure the meat doesn’t come from the harvested? Is it human meat? Tell me.” I always ask her the same questions, and she always answers the same.
“No way. That’s just a rumor to keep people more afraid. People are harvested for organs and whatever the government needs. Most people are intact and become human servants, especially children. Sometimes, they get adopted. Girls, of course.”
I give her a skeptical look. “Right, Mrs. J. Intact. What do they need human servants for if they have c-ervants? And kids like us, we’re expendable.” Almost everyone I have seen harvested is a bloody mess.
“Beatrice is a good woman,” she says switching the subject. “She was one of my students once, before all this—” she waves her arm around like a cat might paw at yarn. “You’re so tall.”
“What?” I ask.
“You’re so tall and smart. I’m worried someone will want to patron you, sooner than your finals.” She looks out the small kitchen window. “Then, I won’t see you anymore.” Early patronage is rare; patronage starts when a girl is 16, usually, but some girls are more adept, and I have been hiding some of my skills.
I give her a knowing look. “No one will take me. You know that. It’s too expensive to feed someone who can’t eat government meat. Anyway.”
“Oh,” she says, “I wish you could get out of Packer Town. The world is different out there, and you would thrive.”
I nod, not understand what she means. As far as I can tell, the world is as Packer Town, dying.
The sirens end, and the announcer reports, “There will be no more gatherings for thirty-six hours. Be productive. Be accountable. Be safe.”
“Liars. Liars. Liars,” I say in the same robotic voice. “This is the third harvest in two weeks. Do you think we are going to war again?”
Mrs. Jenkins gives me a squeeze. “We’re always at war. Now, go take this to your mother and come back fast.” She hands me a small pouch. “Go before they have time to search you. Plant this in the rooftop like I taught you. Be sure no one sees.”
“Ah Mrs. J, everyone has a rooftop garden hidden under solar tarps.”
“Yeah, but not for girls. Now hurry along!” she yowls at me playfully and swats at my head.
I know she is right. The gardens are to grow food for boys, the lucky boys who have brave parents. My mother jokes that the extra food is to fatten them for the harvest, but she is bitter having lost two sons by the time her sons were sixteen. I never got to meet them, so they don’t mean much to me, but she still mourns them, even though truly, she doesn’t know what became of them.
I walk nimbly, avoiding strangers. No telling who might steal my water or worse, says Mrs. J, but I am not sure what worse is, yet. I have seen young boys being raped in the alley and dead people starved to death or strangers shot by regular citizens. Once, I saw a woman selling her male baby on the street corner, and I held my tears all the way home. We are not supposed to cry for boys.
“Hey,” says a raspy voice. It is Guadalupe Ramirez or as I like to call him Alan. Boys are given their mother or a matriarch’s name and father’s last name. It’s cute for most mothers to do that, but his mother hates him. That is part of the reason I call him Alan, after his father. Girls take their mother’s last names, which usually has to do with their profession. My family has lived in the suburbs as packing house workers as long as I remember. My eyes rest on Alan’s grimace, and he bows his head and looks at his cheap shoes.
He is my age and in the same class. He has the most brilliant smile with strong white teeth. It’s the only thing that is strong in his body. His dark brown hair is cropped short with highlights from overexposure to the sun. Most boys in the neighborhood have dark skin and black eyes. He has unusually blue eyes, and I wonder if somewhere along the way, the gender got botched up. His smile warms me to the core, and for a moment, I forget the ugly harvest.
I wave, then think better of it and scowl. “Carry this for me, boy.”
Alan looks up and frowns, but takes the jug. “Humbly, oh great one.”
We both giggle, and I pace two feet ahead of him, which isn’t hard because today he is wheezing so loud, anyone can probably hear him way down at the processing plant. He wears an ugly shirt with some red flowers and patched up blue jeans.
“Glad you weren’t harvested,” I say, pointing at his shirt.
“You and me both. Mom dressed me this morning and sent me out, though I could barely breath. When the sirens went off, I hid under the old resistance bunker. ”
I am furious. Even if he is sick, she has no right. Boys, especially lowborn boys, are not allowed to wear red. That is a color of honor, one I wear often but am not partial to. Everywhere there is red: red cameras, red advertisements, red screen ads. Red sidewalks stained with blood.
“Next time, lose the shirt and say some girl tore it off your back,” I urge him.
“And get sun burned? Or skin cancer?” He hands me a jug, bows, and continues onto his flat.
“Hey, boy! Where is your shit suit?” I ask because I just noticed he has no protection. Most girls’ skin is genetically modified to bear the sun’s deadly rays, but not boys, at least not boys in our neighborhood.
He shrugs his shoulder. “Mom sold it to buy lard and some flour.”
“See you at school,” I say. I turn back to look at him; he is walking with a limp in his left foot. I gaze upward and note how the hair on the back of his head is near white, bleached from the sun.
I am glad to be a girl with high prospects.
