Free The Immortal Harvest by L. J. Wallace Page B

these days even those were beginning to fade. He recalled snippets through the drug and alcohol haze.
    He had been a Green Beret who became a victim of post traumatic stress disorder. He had seen too much horror.
    After his discharge, he couldn’t adjust to society. He drank heavily every night and occasionally dabbled in recreational drugs to cope with the flashbacks. He convinced himself that he could stop anytime.
    After countless arguments with his first, second and eventually third wife, he realised that he had begun a downward spiral of self destruction. Of course by the time he realised, it was too late.
    This was his life now. He had his freedom. He was free to starve, free to suffer the misery, free to suffer the cold indifference of a society that either looked down with disdain upon the homeless or worst still didn’t look at them at all. Such was the price of freedom.
    He grabbed a bunch of old newspapers and began stuffing them down inside his jacket. The paper insulated him against the cold. He looked with disinterest at the headline of the local rag. He spread the page on the ground in front of him.
    Prominent Senator and philanthropist assassinated – Police have no leads!
    He squinted at the photo of the deceased. He looked familiar. Then it dawned on him, the photo triggered a flashback.
    He recognised him as the man who had been talking to the homeless and making promises to them and according to the gossip around the bin fires, this man was going to help them.
    Well, so much for that, he thought as once again he realised that there was no one to help them.
    This Senator had been silenced, along with some of the homeless. Joseph was not a fool; he knew that others like him were disappearing.
    He finished reading the article to see if the disappearing homeless were mentioned. There was nothing, not a single line about the invisible victims, the silent minority as he liked to call them.
    He was not surprised.
    He recognised the kill method, the Senator had been assassinated. The article mentioned the type of ballistics that had been used. It was definitely a sniper round. He was a bit surprised that ballistics had not been able to match the striation marks with any existing firearms.
    That just don’t make no sense he thought as he scrunched up the paper and shoved it inside his coat.
    He leaned back on the pile of cardboard, closed his eyes and tried to ignore the persistent screech of feral tomcats as they postured over territories.
    He was about to fall into a deep sleep when he heard an almost imperceptible voice filter into his consciousness.
    “Excuse me mister. Are there any taxis around here?”
    Joseph slowly opened one eye and saw the image of a young boy standing in front of him clutching a small backpack. He opened his eyes and leant forward quickly in a threatening gesture.
    “Get out of here boy. This is no place for a young’un. Now go on, get outta here!”
    He made a sweeping gesture with his arm as if he was trying to swat a fly.
    “Go home to ya Mama – go on, SCAT!!”
    He was about to stand up when he noticed the boy’s shoulders slouch and heard him whimpering.
    “Now go on, don’t you start blubbering. Just go home to your Mama before you end up gettin’ hurt or sumfin,” he said as he grabbed a piece of cardboard and pulled it over himself as he lay back down.
    He rolled onto his side away from the boy and closed his eyes and pretended he wasn’t there.
    After a minute or so he decided he couldn’t ignore the blubbering anymore and rolled back over to face him.
    “Look kid, you’re interruptin me beauty sleep. What do you want?”
    He watched as the boy raised his head and took a deep breath between sobs.
    “I have to catch a taxi to see Mummy; she’s been hurt really bad.”
    “Is that so? Do you know where your Mummy is?” asked Joseph as he fumbled for his treasured brown paper bag.
    He saw the boy slowly shaking his head, tears running down reddened