Michael R. Hicks - Season Of The Harvest

Season Of The Harvest

By

Michael R. Hicks

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright 2011 by Michael R. Hicks

ISBN: 978-0984492763

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Published by Michael R. Hicks

http://www.authormichaelhicks.com

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For those who perished in 9/11,
and the loved ones they left behind.

And for Dona: we miss you.

Acknowledgments

As with any book, the author is only the tip of the iceberg in taking a huge pile of words and transforming them into something both readable and (I hope!) worth reading.

First I have to thank my editors, Mindy and Stephanie, who spent a great deal of their time wading through the original manuscript while trying not to laugh too hard, and with nothing more awaiting them in compensation than some chocolate, an autographed copy of the book, and a t-shirt. Youre both gems and when I strike it rich someday, Ill make it up to you.

Next up is my Dad. While my parents have always been supportive of my writing (they even claim to have liked some of it), Dad provided some real sanity checks on some of the more technical parts of the book from his background in pathology and microbiology.

Id also like to credit Groundskeeper Pete for the amazing information he contributed from his web site on the Cold War-era Titan I base that I used as the setting for certain key scenes in the book. Check out www.chromehooves.net its some truly amazing stuff.

Then there are my beta readers, Susan, Geoff, Starfire, and fellow author Margaret Anne Lake, who helped put the final touches on the book. Thank you so much for your time and support youre the best!

Finally, but never last or least, is Jan, my wife. Thank you for all your support and your love. Without you, I would have no dreams.

Foreword

Genetically modified organisms, or GMOs.

Just sitting there on the page, the term sounds exotic, doesnt it? Like something out of a science fiction story. You may have heard about them, or you may not. But one things for certain: unless you eat only organic food, youve probably put a genetically modified organism in your mouth and eaten it. Many times. Corn. Soy. Rice. Wheat. And others.

There are companies here in the United States and in other nations that have modified the genetic material of many of our most basic food crops to be fundamentally different from their natural siblings. Strains of these crops have been engineered to be resistant to certain herbicides, or to repel insect pests. To need less water. To grow faster, or larger. Human engineering has improved on the work of Nature, tailoring these vital plants to our needs. Its a multi-billion dollar industry that controls an ever-larger share of the worlds food supply, for the benefit of people everywhere.

And we know that GMOs are safe for us, for our children. For the animals we depend on for our protein. We know this because the companies that produce these wonder crops say so. The government agencies responsible for the safety of our food supplies say so. Therefore, it surely must be true.

Genetically modified organisms. You are what you eat

Prologue

Sheldon Crane ran for his life. Panting from exhaustion and the agony of the deep stab wound in his side, he darted into the deep shadows of an alcove in the underground service tunnel. Holding his pistol in unsteady hands, he peered around the corner, past the condensation-covered pipes, looking back in the direction from which hed come.

Nothing. All he could hear was the deep hum of the electric service box that filled most of the alcove, punctuated by the drip-drip-drip of water from a small leak in one of the water pipes a few yards down the tunnel. Only a third of the ceiling-mounted fluorescent lights were lit, a cost-saving measure by the university that left long stretches of paralyzing darkness between the islands of greenish-tinged light. He could smell wet concrete and the tang of ozone, along with a faint trace of lubricating oil. And over it all was the scent of blood. In the pools of light stretching back down the tunnel, all the way back to the intersection where he had turned into this part of the underground labyrinth, he could see the glint of blood on the floor, a trail his pursuer could easily follow.

He knew that no one could save him: he had come here tonight precisely because he expected the building to be empty. It had been. Almost. But there was no one to hear his shouts for help, and he had dropped his cell phone during the unexpected confrontation in the lab upstairs.

He was totally on his own.

Satisfied that his pursuer was not right on his heels, he slid deeper into the alcove, into the dark recess between the warm metal of the electric service box and the cold concrete wall. He gently probed the wound in his side, gasping as his fingertips brushed against the blood-wet, swollen flesh just above his left hip. It was a long moment before he was sure he wouldnt scream from the pain. It wasnt merely a stab wound. He had been stabbed and cut before. That had been incredibly painful. This, however, was far worse. His insides were on fire, the pain having spread quickly from his belly to upper chest. And the pain was accompanied by paralysis. He had lost control of his abdominal muscles, and the sensation was spreading. There was a sudden gush of warmth down his legs as his bladder suddenly let go, and he groaned in agony as his internal organs began to burn.

Poison, he knew.

He leaned over, fighting against the light-headedness that threatened to bear him mercifully into unconsciousness.

No, he panted to himself. No . He knew he didnt have much time left. He had to act.

Wiping the blood from his left hand on his shirt, cleaning it as best he could, he reached under his right arm and withdrew both of the extra magazines he carried for his weapon, a 10mm Glock 22 that was standard issue for FBI special agents. He ejected the empty magazine from the gun, cursing himself as his shaking hands lost their grip and it clattered to the floor.

It wont matter soon , he thought giddily as he slumped against the wall, sliding down the rough concrete to the floor as his upper thighs succumbed to the spreading paralysis, then began to burn.

Desperately racing against the poison in his system, he withdrew a small plastic bag from a pocket inside his jacket and set it carefully next to him. He patted it with his fingertips several times to reassure himself that he knew exactly where it was in the dark. His fingers felt the shapes of a dozen lumps inside the bag: kernels of corn.

Then he picked up one of the spare magazines and shucked out all the bullets with his thumb into a pocket in his jacket so he wouldnt lose them. Setting down the now-empty magazine, he picked up the tiny bag and carefully opened the seal, praying he wouldnt accidentally send the precious lumps flying into the darkness. For the first time that night, Fate favored him, and the bag opened easily.

Picking up the empty magazine from his lap, he tapped a few of the kernels onto the magazines follower, the piece of metal that the bottom bullet rested on. He managed to squeeze a bullet into the magazine on top of the corn kernels. Once that was done, he slid the other bullets into place, then clumsily slammed the magazine into the weapon and chambered a round.