Blink.
The shutter smashed again. A camera? "Great smile. One more picture–and this time, Patches–no funny faces."
Blink.
A hum resounded, like the inside of a dryer–metallic spinning–but parallel to the ground, flooring upwards.
He was laying on some kind of sheet metal operating table. A bright light attempted to blind him, illuminating the fright on his face, and hands groped and prodded him. Hands–but those were no ordinary hands.
Blink. Those hands were long, and that wasn't a normal skin color. Blink. They were going for his eyes. Blink. Blink. They were scratching his eyes! Blink blink blink blink–
But nothing–trapped-something cold and metallic held open his eyes. "What do you want from me!" Pat screamed.
They (whoever they were) looked all around–the sclera of their eyes, so large and yellow, their pupils, so black, pin points, their eyes were moving too much, and too quickly, bragging–his couldn't move–but his hands! They didn't restrain his hands!
He lifted them to his face, ripped off the apparatus, and sat up. They scurried backwards. No mouths, but they could talk. "Take it easy, son, we're not going to hurt you."
"Where am I?"
Blink.
He was back in the screened-in area of someone's backyard, surrounded by three cops, an old man, and a Great Dane.
Blink.
The operating room again. The metallic table was nearby, and on it sat a knife. He picked it up.
"Where am I!?"
"Son, if you keep screaming you'll wake the neighbors!"
He lunged, tackling the nearest big eyes, knife poised. He stabbed.
Blink.
Blood spurted from the tiny body of a child. Children screamed.
Blink.
A police officer, bleeding on the ground.
"Get him off me! 10-24, officer down!"
Blink.
Long fingers all over his body, not gripping but rubbing, his mind was on fire, metal all around him, he stabbed the big eyes again–lost and scared.
Without warning, his body hovered into the air, froze, then flew backwards.
Blink.
He flew through the air, hitting an encampment and rolling down a hill. The truck screeched to a halt, blood painted on its bumper and windshield.
The driver stormed out of the truck. "Fuck buddy, are you nuts? Charging at a truck? What the fuck!" He bent over Pat. "Shit… Oh please don't be dead, this ain't my fucking fault!"
Pat couldn't move, his legs and arms wouldn't budge–he was paralyzed.
Blink.
Cops were holding him down. One cop far from Pat was screaming. "Don't die on me, Franky boy! It's just a flesh wound! Do you hear me? A flesh wound!" A police officer had his hands pressed down on the bloody chest of another. Blood soaked the ground, so much blood, it drenched the whole backyard, too much blood.
Blink.
Children with inhuman strength were all around him, growling and crying, holding him down, torrents of mucous dripping from every orifice. Pat jerked, but couldn't break free.
Blink.
"Hey buddy, you okay?" a voice whispered, echoing around the blades of grass. Woods. No, it was the truck driver again. Something howled, concealed in the forest. Gray clouds raced in front of the moon.
Blink.
Cops holding his arms and legs, the Great Dane standing above him, growling, drooling.
Blink.
The street at night, but something felt different–maybe it was the wind. He was alone in an intersection, old buildings surrounded him, to his right was a park, beyond the park a lake. A few people, couples with arms around each other spoke quietly, whispering and laughing. At him? Where was he? Something was wrong. Something was throwing and tumbling his mind. He had one concise thought, one goal–he needed Sam. He had to find Sam.
Last he saw, they were loading Sam into an ambulance.
An ambulance. Walking down the street in a daze, too scared to blink, Pat stumbled onward.
His ears perked. A siren. Sam? He followed the noise, first trotting, then sprinting. Down the street, yes, lights, what luck–maybe he had only been out for a few hours, maybe that was Sam?
He looked up at the sky and saw it, the ambulance, wheels retracted, thrusting through the low fog. It approached, landing somewhere near him. He sprinted towards it as it descended. It was landing so near, what luck!
It parked. The medics hopped out and went around back to unload the stretcher, then sprinted with it into the building. Pat heard yelling from inside–a stabbing?
Oh well. Running to the ambulance, he systematically checked the doors. They locked the back, the drivers side, the passenger door, he checked the chassis door on the passenger side–unlocked!
People were running around the building–nobody would notice him. He darted inside, closed the door behind him and locked it. There was a bench to his left, in front was the captain's chair, and to the right was the cabin. He hopped through the small opening and sat down in the driver's seat. On the console to his right were two radios, countless switches, and a knob. He hit the switch labeled THRUST and immediately the ambulance shook and lifted slightly off the ground. The steering wheel loosened from its hold on the dash. He could push it in and out and slide it side to side. He pulled it out, only slightly, and the ambulance began to rise into the air.
"Charlie three–" dispatch croaked over the radio.
Pat ignored it and kept rising. He rose above the building and looked around. The sky was empty.
"Charlie three, you've engaged thrust. Are you 51 with patient?"
Pat didn't respond. He pushed the power button on the radio and turned it off. Then he noticed–blood on his finger? Wait, blood on his hands? Where was Sam?
But the thought evaporated as quickly as it'd surfaced. He was flying an ambulance, he had to hide, he had to get out of there.
He pushed the steering wheel upwards, and the ambulance sped forwards. He knew he was heading north, he needed to head south. That was the way back home, to Sam's house. Sam would be there.
He turned the steering wheel, and the ambulance began to pivot in place. Easy enough. He pressed the wheel upwards again and flew through the fog.
Now flying comfortably, he tried to organize his thoughts. His mind was fragmented, like it had been through a shredder–and he slowly taped together the pieces. Random memories–some real, some imagined–flashed through his brain.
He felt the electrotherapy of GenDec, it felt so real, nausea bubbled from the pit of his stomach. He shook his head and kept flying.
Suddenly, sirens erupted from far off. Without thinking, he flipped the switch labeled MASTER and the lights in the ambulance turned off. He pushed in the steering wheel and the ambulance began to descend quickly.
He reached the ground, flipped off the THRUST switch, and a moment later his wheels were on the ground, although he had no idea where he was. He turned off the headlights, turned off the truck, and darkness engulfed him.
Sirens faded away, and Pat felt his racing heart slow. He was lucky–if they'd caught him he'd have had no excuse. He couldn't explain the visions, he had no recollection of where he'd been–of however long it'd been since he sprinted from the hotel.
That was the last thing he remembered, sprinting from the Quarter Moon Inn. That was when his thoughts grew hazy and the next somewhat solid memory he could form was the man in the duster from the screened in area, although whether that man was real or imaginary remained a mystery.
The sirens melted with the fog of the night and he wondered if he'd imagined them. He'd been flying for at least thirty, maybe forty minutes. The thrust-enabled ambulances were new, he was surprised at how vulnerable they were to theft.
He looked around, but couldn't tell where he was. Turning the ambulance back on, he flipped on the master, then the floodlights to illuminate his surroundings.
◊ ◊ ◊
Cameron Thomas jumped to his feet
as a blinding light blasted through his house from the backyard. He resided in Sherwood Hills, Georgia, and in their neck of the woods life never yielded anything out of the ordinary, which is what made the blinding light easy to disbelieve, at least at first.
Sherwood Hills was a small, somewhat-religious neighborhood, built separate from modern civility by his friend and developer Jack Evans.
Cameron lived with his wife and son. His wife was in bed, his son asleep, and he danced between reality and the dream world in the living room as the flickering blue light from his television illuminated his face, when his home was filled with a blinding light erupting from his backyard.
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head–he was exhausted, and considered the light as just a trick of his brain, but the light persisted and curiosity dragged his legs from his couch and to the backyard, where the light seemed to originate.
Then he saw it–a UFO in his backyard, sitting in the grassy field in the center of the neighborhood's mutual backyard. He rubbed his eyes, yet it persisted, and reality struck home. He ran back inside, up the stairs, and shook his wife awake.
"Caroline!"
She stirred, blinked a few times, and took off her reading glasses. She was under the covers, and had fallen asleep with her glasses on and book in hand.
"What?" she asked, slurring sleepily.
"UFO. Backyard! Quickly!"
She sat up on her pillows. "Cameron calm down. What?"
"You have to come with me right now! Quickly!"
She shook the sleep from her head, put on slippers, and as soon as she stood Cameron grabbed her hand and dragged her down the stairs, through the house, and into the backyard, where her eyes and mind forgot all about sleep.
There it was, a real UFO in their backyard, blasting their home with an impenetrable light. A few neighbors nearby had noticed the light as well and began wandering outside, gathering from their homes to surround the UFO, but were too afraid to approach.
Brandon Holt shouted from his patio. "What's going on Cameron? Is that a UFO?"
"You bet it is, Holt!"
With a rumble and a thrust, the UFO began rising, and the neighborhood gasped. "I don't believe it!" yelled Sandra Evans.
And into the air it rose, higher and higher, then the lights flickered off. It became a speck and flew south, disappearing into the night.
◊ ◊ ◊
Excerpt from United States President Morgan Scott's fifth Presidential Directive: Technological and Genetic Security Advancement - October 1, 1981:
The advances and programs outlined in this directive will guide the long-term development of our strategic forces. This will address the obvious technological gap and inherent weaknesses of our defenses against the possible extra-terrestrial invasion. The result will improve our current security and stimulate future technological growth.
It is important to bear in mind that the following mutually reinforcing parts, although inherently radical, are necessary to ensure the survival of not just our country, but our planet.
(1) Tax relief for technological research and development institutions, focusing on aeronautics and space technology. A catalyst for immediate growth.
(2) Implementation of the Federal Bureau of Eugenics, responsibilities include guiding the evolution of man, leading to stable, more intelligent future generations.
(3) Research and development into chemical means to improve human intelligence.
(4) Increasing accuracy, payload, and construction speed of Probe Launched Ballistic Missiles (PLBM) and general increased research and development into space warfare technology.
(5) Research and development of satellite reconnaissance relays from Europa.
ANY financial resources required for the completion of the program directed by this decision must be derived from currently planned and approved Defense budget allocations.
Chapter 4
Pat turned off the flood lights. He'd seen the faces staring at him, not realizing until they surrounded him that he'd accidentally landed in someone’s backyard. Tossing away the thought, he continued south, now that he'd once again evaded the police.
◊ ◊ ◊
Sam Higgins lost his tongue, dumbfounded, staring at the beautiful woman on his front porch. He rubbed the back of his head. "Um, can I help you, miss…?"
She smiled cruelly. "Claire Waltz."
Sam stumbled backwards, as if she'd slapped him. "S-shit. Seriously?"
"Seriously, Mr Higgins."
"How did you find me–wait, h-how do you even know my name?"
Claire stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "A little birdie called, said you've been spilling secrets about me, about our time at GenDec."
He shook his head. Why couldn't he have peace in his own home, for five minutes–that's all he wanted. "I-I mean–the FBE…" He faltered, unable take his eyes off her, although he couldn't look her in the eyes. She sounded relatively calm, but he felt that beneath her decorum she hid anger. Almost as if she wanted to kill him. Or maybe, he hoped, have sex with him. He also remembered her being blonde, and found himself alternating between staring at her knees and her hair, fighting for enough courage to make eye-contact.
"Yes, your friend and I had a little chat. Agent Summers, if I recall correctly?"
Sam gulped and looked down to hide his bouncing throat. She had an intimidating gaze, leering at him as if he had the integrity of a daffodil that she intended to smash.
"I'm just here to catch up," she said. "And ask you a few simple questions about Pat Shane. Is that alright, Mr Higgins?"
He quivered beneath her, as if she stood three feet taller than him when in reality, she was a couple inches shorter than him. What she'd said sounded like a lie, but he couldn't just turn away Claire Waltz.
"Yeah, of course, I-I mean, yes, Miss Waltz. Come inside, please. Would you like something to drink?"
"Mr Higgins, call me Claire, and yes, thank you. My plane landed barely an hour ago."
She walked past him and sat on his living room couch that he knew must smell of sweat and sadness. Scurrying into the kitchen, he opened the fridge, pushed past the milk, and saw only recently purchased orange juice. He sighed and wished he had some cool alcohol to serve instead. "Miss, um, C-Claire?"
"Yes?"
"Is orange juice okay?"
"Have any liquor?"
"I'm sorry, I, uh, I just had a party. We finished the bottles I had last night. Some friends, you know, girls and stuff. It was super cool, you would've–"
"–Orange juice is fine, Mr Higgins," Claire said.
He walked back into the room with a single glass of orange juice and noticed her staring curiously at his Christmas decorations. He handed her the glass to take her focus off what was a bright, flashing sign of laziness and loneliness, but his stomach dropped as he realized he'd forgotten to pour himself a glass. He hoped she wouldn't notice, but judging by her curiously amused glance now directed at him, she had.
"Yeah, it was cool," he continued. "If only you were here a day sooner… It was Christmas themed–you would've thought it was cool."
"Yeah, I bet," she said with either a hint of disappointment or disinterested sarcasm. He assumed the latter.
Sitting down, first next to her on the couch, then feeling awkward, he stood to absent-mindedly inspect a nearby chair–as if something was different about it and that's why he stood. He could tell that she was enjoying her visit at the socially-inept virgin zoo and sighed, story of his life.
"Do you have a place where I can hang my coat?" she asked, grinning coyly and standing, clearly wanting to egg on the animals.
"Coat? Uh, well. Here." He held out a hand. She handed him her coat, revealing her white skin tight tank-top underneath. He looked at her then looked down. He didn't know what to do with himself–he didn't even own a coat rack. But it was Florida–no one had coat rack, and why was she even wearing a coat? It was seventy-five degrees out–perfect weather.
At a loss,
he succumbed to tossing her coat over an unused sofa, then sat back down, blushing and hoping she wouldn't berate him.
"Thank you, Mr Higgins," she said, returning to her seat, leaning back and crossing her legs. The two sat in silence as she watched him curiously, and Sam couldn't believe how quickly his heart raced. He lacked the nerve to look at her, and he hadn't a single interesting thing to say. Besides, what was she waiting for? She was the one who called on him, yet she refused to speak–instead just watching him curiously. Finally, the silence got to him.
"How's your orange juice?" he asked.
She took a sip, slowly, carefully, letting the moment linger, then licked her lips. "Delicious, Mr Higgins. Thank you, you're very kind."
He choked out a laugh and scratched the back of his head. "Please, it was nothing."
He laughed again quietly, staring at his lap.
Claire bent low, trying to catch his eyes. "Mr Higgins?"
"Yeah?"
"I have to say–you are one of the most hospitable men I've ever met." She smiled, put her fingers on her lips, then chuckled. "Was that too forward of me? I apologize, sometimes I just can't help myself."
He watched her lower her gaze, as if embarrassed, and take a sip of orange juice. He turned beet red, and faced away from her in a miserable attempt to hide his cheeks. If she was playing him, which he knew she was, she was an evil genius.
"So Mr Higgins…"
"Yes?" he said, hoping for more complements.
"About Pat Shane?"
"Yes?" he pried, still hoping.
She tapped her foot impatiently.
"Tell me about him."
"Oh yeah, sorry!" He rubbed his hands together. "Well, where to start?"
"Did he really kill a man?"
"Yes."
"And he tried to kill you too?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why, Mr Higgins?"
"Yes. He thought we were aliens."
The Harbinger Break Page 7
