Death And The Harvest #blogbattle #shortstory

‘Are you awake, Mrs Pelligonium?’ Doctor Crimson Atak kept his eyes on the monitors. He wasn’t surprised by either the lack of response, nor the messages conveyed by the myriad machines. He nodded to the nurse on the other side of the bed and spun away. As he moved past a young sandy haired man dressed in an almost identical fashion to him – white shirt and tight rolled sleeves – he paused. The younger man looked nervous, however, unlike his senior colleague. ‘Well?’

Doctor Humphrey Stewe hated being put in the spot, especially by someone like his boss. ‘It’s…’ he looked away; the intensity of the other’s gaze proving to be too much.

Crimson didn’t hide the disappointment. ‘What’s the problem, Humph? Classic case I’d say. PVC. No hope of recovery, leaving aside the huge cost to the hospital…’

‘No hope?’

The senior man waved a hand dismissively. ‘Minimal. You’ve seen the stats. You’ve applied the protocol, yes?’

Humphrey nodded unhappily. The famed algorithm developed by Atak and others. Genius, people called it, its accuracy within disappearing fractions.

Crimson continued, his right foot tapping arrhythmically, a sure sign of his building irritation. ‘Her signs are within standard deviations and the parameters allow, with two certifications…’ he paused, his brows beetling, ‘… we can begin, the harvesting.’

All Humphrey could do was nod. He felt rather than saw the nurse busy herself, feigning disinterest. She’s listening to every word, he thought. I wonder if she knows, too; does she feel it? He watched the senior physician meander between beds, each one occupied by a patient, each in a coma. He couldn’t help feeling…

‘Doctor Stewe. Bed six…’

Humphrey dragged himself back to the present, fingered his stethoscope nervously and hurried. The senior nurse looked up, clearly perplexed. ‘I don’t understand, Doctor?’

‘What’s up?’ Humphrey tried to sound more confident than he felt.

‘She’s waking up?’

‘Sorry?’ Humphrey’s eyes darted from the nurse to the patient and back. The figure in the bed, a forty something victim of an unprovoked assault seemed inert to him.

‘He’s showing signs of regaining consciousness. But Doctor Atak…’ she hesitated.


‘He told us to prep him for harvesting. The relatives have certified…’

Humphrey swallowed. He didn’t want to be the one to tell Atak. The nurse, a wise and calm woman with two decades of experience met his gaze. Neither did she, he surmised. ‘I think you’d better postpone the prepping, hadn’t you? It may be a blip.’

‘An error?’

He wanted to smile. Yes, he thought, one of those antiquated things that weren’t meant to happen – couldn’t happen – if the algorithm was correctly applied. Instead he turned away. ‘I’ll be with Mrs Pelligonium.’

Humphrey Stewe was a rational man with methodical if ponderous thought processes. He’d no more believe in the supernatural as he would put his underpants on his head. Mrs Pelligonium had been the opposite: a mystic and medium who seemed to him to be the kind of exotic creature that only appeared in books. Yet, the stream of visitors attested to how she had changed their lives with her extraordinary insights and spectacular predictions.

He sat, glancing around the ward. The patients were testament to the multiethnic, multicultural environment they inhabited, yet each patient had two things in common: a condition that the latest science predicted would deteriorate rapidly and a donor status that, on death, meant their organs could be used – ‘harvested’ as it was glibly and ghoulishly called – for either saving other lives or necessary or desirable research. Since Humphrey had joined the team he had been stunned at the speed with which patients moved through the necessary stages to the end, yet none queried it.

In truth Humphrey, until the arrival of Mrs Pelligonium hadn’t given the arrangements much thought. Now, as he sat alongside the inert woman, other thoughts and ideas intruded. He became increasingly certain there was greater consciousness in those patients than the machines and the application of the approved processes showed.

‘What do you think?’ He no longer thought it odd to have these internal conversations with his patient.

‘I told you I’d sort it out. It ends here.’

He looked at her face. Still, peaceful and, apparently comatose. Had anyone else heard her? That nurse, maybe?

‘No, no one else has your abilities, Doctor. They’ve shut their minds. Watch…’

Humphrey looked up, just in time to see a junior nurse lurch back and scream as the patient in bed six, began to sit. He pulled out the IV drip and turned his head slowly to stare at Humphrey. There was something not entirely right about it.

‘He’s not yet fully awake. You must protect him until he is. They will try and eviscerate his corporeal form but you must stop them.’

Humphrey couldn’t move; he felt rooted to the spot. Other nurses and another junior doctor had appeared and were trying to ease the patient back into the bed, trying to make him lie down.

‘Humphrey, you said you wanted to help,’ the voice, soothing yet demanding filled his head.

He nodded and stood. As he moved down the ward, taking his time, he heard more voices from the patients he passed, some angry, others confused but all of them determined…

The doors to the lobby banged open and Doctor Atak paused, framed by the low light from the corridor.

At the moment Humphrey saw him, the voices stopped. He had the clear impression that each of the patients were staring at the doctor even though none of them moved. Humphrey shivered as he became aware of a sensation apparently emanating from the patients. Unbridled hate towards Atak, mixed with a determination for revenge.

Humphrey stood in front of the patient in bed six. It was the eyes, wide open yet empty. Then the man smiled and Humphrey knew. This man was no longer a body to be reaped; he was a weapon, and that sweet old lady held the trigger.

Written in response to this month’s #blogbattle prompt, the word ‘exotic’

About TanGental

My name is Geoff Le Pard. Once I was a lawyer; now I am a writer. I've published several books: a four book series following Harry Spittle as he grows from hapless student to hapless partner in a London law firm; four others in different genres; a book of poetry; four anthologies of short fiction; and a memoir of my mother. I have several more in the pipeline. I have been blogging regularly since 2014, on topic as diverse as: poetry based on famous poems; memories from my life; my garden; my dog; a whole variety of short fiction; my attempts at baking and food; travel and the consequent disasters; theatre, film and book reviews; and the occasional thought piece. Mostly it is whatever takes my fancy. I avoid politics, mostly, and religion, always. I don't mean to upset anyone but if I do, well, sorry and I suggest you go elsewhere. These are my thoughts and no one else is to blame. If you want to nab anything I post, please acknowledge where it came from.
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16 Responses to Death And The Harvest #blogbattle #shortstory

  1. V.M.Sang says:

    Not such a sweet old lady, then! An interesting story, Geoff. And perhaps we do ‘harvest’ organs from some people too soon. I’m sure most people have heard tales of unconscious people being aware of what is going on around them, and hearing conversations.

    Liked by 1 person

    • TanGental says:

      I recall an archaeological excavation of a 17/18th century grave yard where they found a significant number of the bodies clear trying to claw their way out. Buried comatose and then coming too… I really find nothing more terrifying…


  2. willowdot21 says:

    Geoff this is brilliant, the shape of things to come 💜

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is terrific!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Mick Canning says:

    Something to ponder, indeed.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. aebranson says:

    Several interesting ripples going on here: the older doctor who likes to play god versus the younger doctor who’s still seeking answers. Crimson’s mention in the beginning about hospital cost is a nice setup for the organ harvesting – he no longer sees the patients as people, but rather commodities to help fund the hospital. He pays more attention to the monitors than the patients. Mrs. Pelligonium is definitely a mysterious character, and it’s the kind of story that leaves me wondering ‘what next?’ Quite the social commentary!


  6. Pingback: #BlogBattle Stories: Exotic | BlogBattle

  7. bellabasket says:

    I want to know more. Is there going to be revenge? Incidentally they used to bury people with bells just so they could ring if they were buried alive. I think your story is making alarm bells ring.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Jennie says:


    Liked by 1 person

  9. Gary says:

    Hmm this touches upon a book turned to film that I still find a difficult read or watch, Never Let Me Go. Children raised as donors, clones for spares so to speak. And here we have another harvesting concept cast out. To me this borders horror because it’s almost predictive of where things might one day go. Brave New World or that Dr Who episode New Earth. As Abe said…real people turned into commodities directed in a budget steam. Top drawer again Geoff.

    Liked by 1 person

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