The Harbinger Break

by Adams, Zachary

  A woman with a voice barely above a whisper spoke from the back. "What else have you seen, Mr Higgins?"

  Pat brushed his long hair from his eyes. "They have contaminated our water supply, or food source, and have been poisoning us with an extraterrestrial hallucinogenic. This drug prevents us from seeing the Rhaokins living amongst us, running our law enforcement, our laws, maybe even our country. I suspect a Rhaokin is posing as a high up government official, yet whom that is I've not discerned. There may, in fact, be more than just one."

  The woman with the whisper stepped forward. She was barely five feet tall, with short hair dyed blonde and multiple piercings on her ears and lips. "I know who one might be," she stated with a quiver. "The Vice President of the United States, Jordan Clearwater."

  Her friend glanced over, shocked. "Stella, you never told me this."

  "I never shared my fears with anyone, as to be suspect of insanity or treason," Stella replied. "After a period of fasting to cleanse my spirit, I observed on television from him a speech, and watched his face morph and change before my very eyes. I assumed I was seeing things from the various herbs and supplements I'd been taking, but it was so… vivid. I'm certain now of what I saw."

  Sam looked at Pat, for a sign of disbelief, but saw none–although he was certain that Pat felt it. Sam shivered, excited and scared, and a cold, familiar sweat shook his foundation.

  This was exactly as Pat described his visions, and to hear it reiterated from another person had to be more than a coincidence.

  Sam wasn't certain of most things Pat shared, but from what Stella had said he now felt certain that the main food supply of the country was drugged. Sam once thought of paranoia, and the proof it required to be grounded fear. Now he knew. This wasn't paranoia, this had to be proof, this had to be fear.

  The two conversed with the psychics for a few more hours, met the other psychics as they arrived, and it wasn't until well after sunset that they decided to call it, said goodnight, and went to their room.

  Sam had too many questions, and they'd barely stepped a foot outside when he asked. "Okay, level with me, Pat. H-how did you know that guy's name? Ron Howard?"

  Pat laughed. "I read it on the registry as we checked in. I assumed Ron checked in fairly recently, as he still had his car keys and bags with him and he was the last male name on the list. From there, I just took the risk. Worked well in our favor, I might add."

  "Fine, that’s fine, but how did he know about me forgetting my MetroGel?"

  "Because your rosacea is horrible–your face looks like a tan tomato."

  Sam flushed and looked down. "O-oh."

  Pat wiggled the key in the knob and unlocked their door. The room opened. It was dark, and had two beds and a small television on the opposing wall. Sam flicked on the lights and walked across the room, sitting on the bed furthest from the door. "So now what?" he asked.

  "Now we watch the news. If we're lucky, they'll say nothing about us."

  Pat tossed an apple across the room. Sam caught it, and turned it over in his hands, studying it woefully. His stomach growled as he frowned. Pat apparently expected this tiny fruit to pass for dinner.

  Yeah, right, Sam thought, and considered instead taking the car to get some real food. Then he remembered the side of drugs he'd inevitably digest. Well, he'd been dealing with them fine so far. Better the drugs than starving to death.

  But he never left. They sat on their beds and watched the news, and for some reason, Sam was relieved to see no stories concerning themselves–murderer or victim.

  Sam couldn't remember when he'd fallen asleep–he only knew when he was struck awake, at first by shaking and then the screaming alarm, blasting into his head and annihilating his dream world.

  He opened his eyes, and Pat was bouncing him by the shoulders up and down on his bed, and at first Sam thought Pat was trying to kill him, but then he saw the blue and red lights dancing around their room, and heard the blaring sirens, and Sam was fully awake and aware even before Pat yelled, "Sam! Wake up! The jig is up!"

  Sam rubbed his eyes and sat up. "What? I-I don't–how?"

  "That fat bitch must have ran the card. Should've seen this coming. Fuck!"

  They heard a door down the hall smash open. Pat yelled, "Make your bed and then hide, quickly!"

  Sam threw the comforter over the bed, and then crouched on the floor beside the mattress. Pat did the same with his bed, then dived across Sam's and knelt down beside him. Not a second later, a kick smashed open the door of their room, and a flashlight's white beam crept from the beds to the floor.

  "Clear!" a voice yelled, and footsteps receded from their room.

  "Fuck!" Pat said.

  Sam squeaked. "What are we gonna do?"

  Pat closed his eyes. "I don't know. Let me think."

  They were on the second floor. Police officers would post on both ends of the hall, by the stairs, plus a patrol car would be blocking the exit to the road from the inn. They were trapped.

  In a moment, the cops would find out which room was theirs and storm in, guns drawn. The room began to spin around Sam, and he wiped his brow, attempting to steady himself.

  Pat was deep in thought, head in his hands and eyes shut tight, as if attempting to squeeze a solution from his brain. They heard door after door smash open, sand trickling away, and had barely seconds to act.

  Pat suddenly lit up. He tore the white sheet out from underneath the comforter, then quickly fixed the bed.

  "Bathroom, now!" he whispered.

  Wordlessly, Sam followed. Pat grabbed his razor and began cutting the sheet into strips.

  "Take off your shirt," he said.

  Sam did so without question, and Pat took the first strip and tied Sam's hands together.

  Sam watched him uncomfortably. "What are you–?"

  "I'm sorry about this pal, but it's the only way."

  He pointed Sam to the bathtub, sat him down, and tied his feet together. Pat then wrapped Sam's neck around twice, loose enough so he could breathe, and secured that to the faucet of the tub.

  "I'm really, really sorry about this. When they get here, say that I heard them coming and bailed before they arrived. Got it?"

  Sam nodded. Not a bad plan, he thought. Plus, he'd finally be free. Home free from his kidnapping and his life could finally get back to normal. He wondered why Pat was being so apologetic, and closed his eyes, inwardly relieved. But then he felt the icy touch of metal on his exposed chest, and his grin vanished.

  "Again, I'm real sorry bud. I gotta sell it."

  He slashed.

  Blood spurted from Sam's chest and he cried out. Pat sliced him seven more times in quick succession, and muffled Sam's screams with his hand–with every slash came another apology. Seconds later, Sam whimpered as the deep cuts on his flesh gushed blood that covered his skin like a silk sheet.

  "Wait a few seconds, then cry out for help," Pat said.

  He ran from the room. Sam waited two seconds and then screamed and cried and shouted. Moments later a team of cops ran in, flashlights swarming, and entered the bathroom. The first one to enter knelt down.

  "You're safe now. Where is he?"

  Sam considered turning him in, telling the officers that Pat was probably underneath the bed, but decided against it. He'd seen too much that supported Pat's theories, and just because he didn't want to be involved didn't mean he wanted to hinder him.

  "He left," Sam said, his tears selling his act. "He heard the sirens and bailed. I heard him open and slam the door, just a few minutes ago. He can't have gotten very far–you can still catch him!"

  The other cops ran out immediately, yelling orders and repeating what Sam had said. Two medics rushed in.

  "Can you walk?" the first medic asked as the other checked his pulse and swabbed the blood on his chest.

  "Yeah," Sam responded. The medics unbound his feet, neck, and hands, and scanned him quickly as he stood. They walked him out of the bathroom and onto their stretcher
. Strapping him in, they rolled him out of the room and carried him down the steps to the ambulance.

  A cop with a notepad approached as the medics put copious amounts of gauze, antiseptic, and pressure on Sam's wounds.

  "Mr Higgins, can I ask you a couple questions?"

  "Yeah," Sam said, then grimaced, immediately regretting his affirmative answer.

  "Thank you. You're very brave. So, tell me what happened? What's the last thing you remember?"

  Sam took a deep breath. The aching and burning of the cuts on his body helped him sell his anguish. A sudden thought amused him, and he hid a creeping smile. He pictured the cops spreading out to find Pat, all the while their target hid underneath a bed in the room upstairs. It was kind of funny, in a sick way.

  "He attacked me, almost drowned me, then kidnapped me. He thought I was an alien, and had been torturing me the past few days, trying to get me to admit it."

  "Who's he?"

  "Pat Shane."

  The cop nodded and jotted a note.

  "That's enough for now. Thank you, Mr Higgins." The cop patted one of the medics on the back, and they loaded Sam into the ambulance and flew him to the emergency room.

  Ambulances were the first vehicles to be upgraded to ground/air thrust compatibility, and Sam found flying via positive thrust soothing to say the least. He fell asleep during the flight–the events of the evening had been traumatic, albeit much differently than how law enforcement suspected.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Excerpt from Pope John Paul II's "Redemptor Hominis", May 4th, 1979. Part 12, The Church's Mission and Human Freedom:

  In this unity in mission, which is decided principally by Christ himself, all Christians must find what already unites them, even before their full communion is achieved. This is apostolic and missionary unity, missionary and apostolic unity. Thanks to this unity we can together come close to the magnificent heritage of the human spirit that has been manifested in all religions, as the Second Vatican Council's Declaration Nostra Aetate says. It also enables us to approach all cultures, all ideological concepts, all people of good will, all life by God. We will approach them with the esteem, respect and discernment that since the time of the Apostles has marked the missionary attitude, the attitude of the missionary.

  …

  The mission is never destruction, but instead is a taking up and fresh building, even if in practice there has not always been full correspondence with this high ideal. And we know well that the conversion that is begun by the mission is a work of grace, in which man must fully find himself again.

  For this reason the Church in our time attaches great importance to all that is stated by the Second Vatican Council in its Declaration on Religious Freedom, both the first and the second part of the document. We perceive intimately that the truth revealed to us by God imposes on us an obligation that man must now transcend. We have, in particular, a great sense of responsibility for this truth. By Christ's institution the Church is its guardian and teacher, having been endowed with a unique assistance of the Holy Spirit in order to guard and teach it in its most exact integrity. In fulfilling this mission, united with man, we look towards Christ himself, the first evangelizer, and also towards his Apostles, martyrs and confessors, to give us strength, through space, in our obligation to God.

  …

  Jesus Christ meets the man of every age, including our own, with the same words: "You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free."

  Chapter 3

  Special Agent Chris Summers crashed onto his couch, kicked off his shoes and turned on the television. He sighed, leaning back, glad to finally be home–regardless of how run-down home was.

  He glanced around his one bedroom flat. Wooden floors concealed by a cheap brown rug with a green leaf pattern, a lightly torn brown couch, an unmade bed, and large speakers against the wall by the window were proof enough that someone lived there. He'd grabbed the speakers at a garage sale, five bucks each, eight for the set–not bad after he fixed them, and he kept his rock n' roll disks stacked on top. His rarely-used television sat on the rug across from his coffee table, and beside his couch on the wall hung a painting of some odd colored mountains that the previous owner left. He liked how it looked so he'd left it.

  His cellphone rang, and he sighed at his relaxation interrupted. It was the office. Probably Paige.

  "Summers speaking."

  "Agent Summers."

  He recognized her soft voice immediately.

  "Hey Paige."

  "How's the case?"

  He sighed. "It's coming along… Actually, I just scratched a disk. I need a second." He added a slow inflection to 'scratched a disk'.

  "Alright, call me back."

  "Will do."

  He hung up. A moment later, she called back, personal number this time. He answered.

  "Paige."

  "Hey handsome."

  "What's going on?"

  "Barnes has been up my ass these past few days, wondering what's the–"

  "Can you say that differently?"

  "What differently?"

  He sighed again. She continued.

  "Alright fine. He's been down my throat."

  "Not better."

  She laughed. "I've been covering for you Chris, but we need a progress report or he's going to transfer you."

  "Gotchya."

  "What have you got?"

  "I've spoken to a few known associates of Shane's. This case is proving just as difficult as we thought it'd be. He's psychotic, but the question of nature verses nurture is as heart of it as usual. Of those from GenDec whom I've spoken, it seems he's been conditioned to insanity. Except I can't paint that picture. He's committed heinous crimes–he deserves whatever punishment he receives, but from what I can tell, he'd been tortured to submission in that direction."

  "You sure?"

  "I can't be, Paige. I need to see GenDec. Can you pull some strings upstairs?"

  "I'll see what I can do. Give me the formal report in five."

  "Alright. Thanks."

  "Don't mention it."

  He hung up and sat back in the sofa, thinking about what he would say. Pat Shane was, by the standard, crazy–but also a hero, at least in his own mind.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Claire Waltz's plane landed in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, a little after three in the afternoon. She wasn't thrilled to return this close to GenDec, but she had to find Higgins. She wanted–no–needed to find out what he remembered.

  She rented a black sedan, took the Skyway to Pompano, then drove to 1312 Red Gable Drive, where her IT friend Lee had located a plausible Sam Higgins.

  Lee was also in love with her, which was useful.

  She parked the car and approached the pink little bungalow, knocking twice on the door. Turning around, facing the street, she studied her nails, analyzing the perfection of her French manicure while waiting for a response, which seemed to be taking a while.

  She grimaced. How degrading was this? Her, calling on someone else… as if. But this was personal, and she couldn't just call a favor and send anyone. He might know things. Things she'd hoped nobody remembered and had in stock to share.

  There was no answer, so she knocked again. Lee had called her earlier, told her that he was alive and had been rescued over a day before. Plus, a silver Honda Accord sat in the driveway, so she knew he had to be home. What was keeping him? Had Patches come back and done something?

  Finally, she heard rustling inside the home. Someone had their face planted upon the eye-hole of the door. A second later, the door opened, and a large, tan, seemingly blushing man appeared.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  He remembered running, but the rest was fuzz and froth in Pat's mind, slowly settling.

  A man in a duster jacket entered the screened in area, Pat looked–but he vanished–nothing there. Looking down at his hands, Pat twiddled his thumbs, or maybe they were twiddling themselves. But they were also bleeding, and he didn't know how
or why. What was happening? Think.

  "THINK GODDAMMIT!"

  A voice–who? He spun, but nothing. Ghosts were having parties in the corners of his eyes–if he looked they vanished. Some had guns, others were taunting him, silently screaming, rushing towards him, bleeding tears. He looked and they disappeared. Cackling, laughing–or were those crickets?

  "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BACK YARD!"

  Pat's pupils smashed back and forth in slow motion, the pendulum of a grandfather clock, striking twelve every second. But they saw nothing–observed no one. He was forcing his brain to think. (I need to eat), where? (where am I?) He remembered running. He knew pi to the 100th digit, and attempted to recite it, to help him focus. "Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine seven nine three point one four one five nine two six five three point one four one fine [no] too sick [too]."

  It was no use. He'd run all night, hiding from the light. Nothing to drink, nothing to eat. He sat huddled in the corner of someone's backyard, a backyard his subconscious clicked at, pointing at (waitaminute … nevermind) as he held his knees to his chest and glanced around, wondering how he'd arrived wherever he was.

  A heavy shutter smashed in his mind, followed by a high pitched whine–and a blinding light engulfed his vision, blocking out everything else. A police officer with a flashlight appeared. Pat raised his hand to his face, casting a deep shadow along his eyes.

  He blinked once to adjust–but with that blink the cop, along with the backyard, vanished.

  The world changed. Instead of the screened-in patio at night, now the sun was in his eyes–he was in a playground, children spinning and singing, their voices echoing inside his head, their laughter going on and on for an eternity. He lowered his hand and glanced around, but he couldn't recognize this place. So then he–

  Blink.

  A blaring horn deafened him. His hands shot up to the sides of his head, covering–defending his ears. The night sky threatened to crush him, and he stood in the middle of the road–a truck headed right for him, blinding him with its headlights. He stumbled back, eyes wide, mouth agape and–