The Harvest
What begins as a typical night for two underground scavengers becomes a surreal encounter that challenges their understanding of post-apocalyptic evolution.
Harvest Number One
Greetings, dear listeners. This is Bob Nine, with a special report from the depths of Bunker 51. Today, we bring you a heartwarming story of resourcefulness and recycling that will surely inspire you to look at your neighbours in a whole new light.
Picture, if you will, the soothing mechanical lullaby of a bone saw, its dulcet tones giving way to the organic symphony of visceral slurping. Our intrepid waste management specialists, Gold and Blue (because colour-coding is essential in any well-organized society), were elbow-deep in what can only be described as a pool of possibility.
"There you are," exclaimed Mister Gold, his voice muffled by his mask and the layers of human tissue. "You can’t hide from me.” Triumphant, he held aloft a kidney.
Blue, ever the philosopher, mused, "Indeed, Mister Gold. One man's waste, and all that. Our friend here is about to become a condo complex for our mutant rodent population. Isn't it wonderful how the circle of life continues, even down here?"
The soon-to-be-repurposed citizen on the table twitched, no doubt in agreement with the noble cause his body was serving. His eyes, now freed from the burden of sight, gazed lovingly at the cracked ceiling, seeing the beauty in nothingness.
With the grace of a concert pianist, Gold deposited the glistening organ into a waiting cooler. The wet 'splat' it made was like applause from a grateful universe.
"What's next on our hunt list?" Gold inquired, his voice tinged with excitement.
"Ah, that would be the liver, Mister Gold," Blue responded. "We have a discerning customer who's willing to trade their firstborn for a pristine. Isn't capitalism marvellous?"
"Pristine Mister Blue? I'd wager this gentleman's liver has more pickling than my grandmother's bunker-grown onion stash."
"Now, now, Mister Gold. Let's not be organ snobs. In our brave new world, even a well-marinated liver is a treasure beyond compare."
And so, dear listeners, our dynamic duo continued their noble work, scalpel dancing through flesh with the artistry of a thousand unappreciated dancers. The shadows watched in reverent silence.
"You know," Gold pontificated, eyeing the pancreas, "I can't help but feel we're modern-day poets, giving meaning to lives that society deemed meaningless."
Blue nodded sagely, bagging organs with the tenderness of a mother tucking in her children. "Truer words were never spoken. We are the unsung heroes of 51."
The bone saw roared back to life, its song drowning out their laughter but not the profound truth of their words. Outside, the bunker’s glow painted the night in hues that would make a toxic waste dump jealous, blissfully unaware of the beautiful harvest taking place in its necrotic underbelly.
An Unwitting Prey
As we continue our heartwarming tale of resourcefulness, dear listeners, let us follow our intrepid organ redistribution specialists on their nightly rounds. Their trusty barrow, a vehicle so well-loved it groaned in harmony with the walls, prowled the corridors like a metal predator with a severe case of arthritis.
Gold swept the shadowy crevices, searching for those in need of... assistance.
"Slim pickings tonight," Blue grumbled, his excuse for a cigarette painting the air with cancerous constellations. The ember's glow highlighted deep creases of hard living on his face.
Gold grunted. "Patience, Mister Blue. Our future donors can't have gone far. It's not like they can escape, after all."
Hunched figures dotted the landscape, their eyes following the two with a mix of fear, resignation, and possibly indigestion from the latest batch of government-issued nutrients.
"How about that one?" Blue pointed at a shape that could generously be described as human-adjacent, propped against a wall like a forgotten mannequin.
Gold squinted, his eyes narrowing behind glasses that had seen better decades. "Ah, no. Too far gone, I'm afraid. Organs would be like trying to sell pre-war sushi."
They trundled on, their rusty barrow's squeaky wheels providing a discordant basso profundo to the bunker's subterranean symphony.
"There,” Gold said suddenly. "Corner of 12th and Despair."
A figure walking towards them swayed in the flickering light. Female, approximately 35 years old, but with a face that suggested she had taken a shortcut through time and gotten lost.
Blue leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face. "Jackpot, Mister Gold. Shall we extend an invitation to our little soiree?"
"It would be impolite not to introduce ourselves." Gold chuckled.
The woman barely acknowledged their approach, her eyes unfocused, lost in whatever chemical wonderland she'd found to escape the crushing weight of reality. As our heroic duo closed in, Blue waxed philosophical.
"You know, in a way, we're like superheroes. Cleaning up the bunker."
Gold's laugh was a sound that would make hyenas file noise complaints. "Indeed. Making our restrictive world a safer place, one organ at a time."
The woman's glazed eyes finally focused on them, fear cutting through her drug-induced haze. Her body tensed, but her limbs had all the responsiveness of government bureaucracy.
Gold and Blue closed in. Another soul to save, another body to... repurpose.
The Snare
With the tender care one might show a particularly temperamental explosive, Blue's hand gently encouraged the woman's protests to remain unvoiced. She was light as the concept of ethics in their line of work.
"My word," Blue grunted, dropping her into the barrow, "Are we certain there's anything of value in this feather, Mister Gold?"
The barrow lurched into motion, swallowing lights in rhythmic gulps. The woman's eyes danced with fear and confusion.
"Now, now, Mr Blue," Gold chided, his knuckles white on the barrow handles. "Let's not be hasty in our judgments. Sometimes these living bones surprise you."
They wove through the labyrinth of Level 82. Trash skittered in their wake. The forgotten storage room loomed ahead, patiently waiting to cradle their newest acquisition.
Blue escorted their guest inside, her feet leaving abstract expressionist trails in the dust. "Welcome," he chuckled, depositing her onto the makeshift operating table with a thud.
Gold flicked on the lamps, their harsh glare exposing the woman's neglect and poor life choices.
"If you'd be so kind as to secure our guest, Mister Blue. We wouldn't want her wandering off before the main event."
"But of course. Customer service is our top priority, after all."
"Now," Gold grinned, snapping on latex gloves, "let's see what delightful surprises our friend has brought us."
Blue squinted at Gold, his pupils shrinking away from the light. "Say, aren't you forgetting a crucial step in our customer care process, Mister Gold? We must ensure our guest is comfortably... relaxed."
Gold's eyes widened, a gleam reflecting off his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Ah, how dreadfully forgetful of me. We can't have our esteemed donor waking up mid-procedure, can we? That would be terribly impolite."
With a nod that spoke volumes about their unique brand of hospitality, Blue's fist introduced itself to the woman's face with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
"Now," Gold commanded, "let's ensure our guest is tucked in."
"Certainly, Mister Gold." Blue's hands secured straps across ankles, thighs, wrists, and forehead.
And so, dear listeners, our noble specialists prepared to perform their sacred duty, unaware that fate – and bunker biology – had some surprises in store that would make even the most jaded citizen raise an eyebrow in disbelief.
The Awakening
The scalpel descended, ready to part flesh and reveal the mysteries within. But as the blade kissed the grimy skin, something unprecedented occurred. Or rather, nothing occurred, which in this line of work is unprecedented enough to warrant a full report.
"What the fu..." Gold muttered, pressing deeper with growing confusion.
He sliced wider, peeling back layers of skin and muscle. Still nothing. No blood, no guts, no bones.
Gold leaned in, his face a mask of bewilderment. "Is she hollow or some shi—"
Suddenly, dear listeners, reality decided to take a sharp left turn into the realm of the absolutely, positively, what-the-hell-is-going-on bizarre.
The woman's eyes snapped open, revealing black voids where pupils once lived. Her jaw unhinged with a crack. Before either of our heroes could react, her arm shot out, shattering the restraint, fingers elongating into talons.
A stunned Gold stumbled back, sending a tray of instruments clattering to the floor.
The woman – if such a mundane term could still apply to this marvel of modification – moved with impossible speed. One moment she was on the table, the next she was airborne.
She slammed into Gold, sending him sprawling like a thrown ragdoll. Her talons raked across his chest, redecorating his shirt and the flesh beneath in a pattern of blood. Gold's howl of terror a sound that would haunt the nightmares of anyone who heard it.
Blue, in a demonstration of the strength of their partnership, lunged for the door. His fingers scrabbled at the handle in desperation.
The creature's head snapped towards him, mouth stretching wide enough to swallow not just words, but entire dictionaries. A guttural screech erupted from that cavernous maw.
As Gold succumbed to unconsciousness, Blue yanked at the door with enough force to register on the Bunker's seismographs. His whimpers cut off with a wet gurgle as he was spun around and razor-sharp claws tore through his throat. Blood sprayed across the grimy concrete floor, adding fresh stains to years of grime.
Gold lay mercifully unconscious nearby, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. The creature now loomed over him, its maw stretched in a rictus grin.
Harvest Number Two
It struck.
Gold’s chest exploded open. Ribs cracked like gunshots. The thing plunged elbow-deep into his torso, fishing out glistening ropes of the intestine.
Our visitor, displaying a work ethic that would make even the most dedicated recycling worker weep with envy, plunged elbow-deep into Gold's torso. She seemed to be fishing for... well, let's just say she wasn't searching for loose change.
The creature worked with the frenzied efficiency. Lungs, livers, hearts... all vanished into the bottomless void of her form like socks in the Bunker's communal laundry.
As she stuffed the last quivering organ inside, her torso began to close. Muscles knit together. Skin flowed like liquid, sealing shut without a scar.
She straightened, now solid where she had been hollow. Her form began to shift, subtly at first, then more pronounced. It was as if reality itself was having trouble deciding what she should look like.
The creature that had entered as a frail homeless woman strode towards the exit, each step bringing new changes. Behind her lay two shells – hollow mockeries of Gold and Blue, their glassy eyes staring at nothing, jaws frozen in expressions.
And so, dear listeners, we come to the end of our tale. A story of resourcefulness, unexpected evolution, and the dangers of making assumptions about the contents of strange women you meet on the street.
Let this be a lesson to us all. In our brave new world, appearances can be deceiving, organs are a precious commodity, and sometimes, just sometimes, the harvest... harvests back.
Remember, in the darkness of Bunker 51, we are all each other's eyes. Stay vigilant, stay alive, and whatever you do, don't listen too closely to the walls. This is Bob Nine, your voice in the void, signing off.