The Harbinger Break

by Adams, Zachary

  "You don't understand how it is. You're nothing."

  She breathed deeply and took off her coat, partly due to the heat and partly due to an innate desire to make him her putty. Maybe because he was winning, maybe because she just let her insecurities spill and now felt a curious longing for his approval, but she couldn't explain that desire. But as badly as she wanted this to be finished, and to run away, she held his gaze. She'd beaten every man at the game, and Pat shouldn't be any different. She watched him study her with an intrigued, child-like curiosity.

  "Now what?" Claire asked, wanting to expose what he was thinking. Wanting him to admit weakness, to falter under her spell, maybe apologize, and turn meek under her intimidating presence. But no one had ever threatened to kill her before, and she wondered if she could even win. She'd never felt this particular uncertainty before.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "So, you're just going to leave? You threaten to kill me and now, just like that, that's it?"

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to know what you want, Patches."

  He paused, stunned, in disbelief. She couldn't believe she just said that. She was even crazier than him.

  "You can't manipulate me, Claire," he said.

  "Oh, so the little boy who jumped when I whistled is pretending to be such a big man now. You're not fooling me, Patches."

  She egged him on, uncertain of herself, as if she were a spectator watching herself react without thinking, stuck on autopilot. What did she want? For him to admit he still had feelings for her, and then rub them in his face? On second thought, that sounded pretty good.

  "I asked you to call me Pat," he said.

  "Make me, little boy."

  "Claire, if you want me to beg, tough luck. If you want me to fuck you, just ask."

  "Fuck off asshole. If I wanted, you'd be begging naked."

  She hated something about him, something she wanted. Feeling along the cracks of her shattered ego, she pretended it was fine, when she really needed him to reassure her it was fine. But he wouldn't, and she needed something, like validation. For the first time, she felt desperate.

  "Fuck off," she repeated. "You're nothing."

  He was visibly annoyed.

  "I don't need you, Claire. Those men you think you're just fucking once? Well, guess who they're just fucking once too? And yes, you can tell yourself that they would fuck you again at your beck and call, but guess what bitch–some of them wouldn't. You aren't the top dog, you just bark the loudest."

  "Fuck you."

  "And the worst part, the most pathetic part is that you want me right now. You want me to go over there and rip off your clothes and take you," he said, playing her game. "It's lonely at the top, I can understand that, and you want someone to make you moan and gasp and curse and kiss and sweat until your mouth is dry, legs are numb, hands are cramping, and you're seeing stars. You want me, but your ego won't allow it. Go board your plane and fly home, Claire, and justify your loneliness with your thousand dollar faucet and furs."

  "Fuck–"

  Check and mate. He tossed aside the knife and his body collapsed against hers, and next thing she knew his hands were underneath her shirt and all over her, and she was being thrust backwards, into a room, onto poor Sam's king-sized bed, and Pat was on top of her, and her eyes were closed, and her mind was savage with passion and nothing else.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Europa Reconnaissance Orbiter 16 - Log Excerpt - 1989

  "After the failure of EROs, Eros 1-15, Eros 16 has engaged Europa, completed a cycle, and relayed data successfully back to Earth. Signs of life observed suggest only hundreds, but early photographs illuminate that the civilization is without question technologically superior, a concerning fact. Eros 16 orbits within sight, yet the aliens continue to disregard all communication attempts."

  Chapter 6

  Sam Higgins, poor old Sam Higgins, looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror of his Civic and laughed. Pathetic. He was so afraid for his worthless life that he'd walked out on the woman he loved, condemning her to die in his own house. His life had turned from pleasantly mundane to trash, and it was Pat's fault.

  No, not Pat's fault. Pat gave him a goal, a purpose. His life was pathetic long before Pat had entered it, Sam simply had nothing until the return of Pat and Claire to accentuate the depth of his low. He wished was braver–wished he had bigger huevos. It was too late now, though, because he'd condemned them to some dumpster in the back lot of the FBE facility.

  Half an hour after he left his house, drove around aimlessly, and lost a battle against an intangible fear, Sam still hadn't turned around, afraid he'd arrive to find Claire's car still in his driveway–a notion that would suggest the worst. He could do only so much, and even his worst nightmares never stooped as low as having him dispose of the body of the woman he loved alongside a man he now considered his enemy.

  The thought of her car and that stupid ambulance still at his home, where just a week ago nothing out of the ordinary ever happened, almost brought tears to his eyes. He just wanted both cars gone and everyone to leave him alone. An ambulance in front of his house for this long had to be attracting unwanted attention, which would inevitably lead to more unwanted attention. Was it asking too much to just want to arrive back at his house and find it nice and empty?

  Avoiding eye-contact with his reflection, he wondered what had made him so weak. As badly as he wanted to blame GenDec, he knew that Pat and Claire were proof enough that not everyone had been traumatized by the therapy. Was he just condemned from birth to be weak? A failure, just like his parents in their last, desperate act? Pat, Claire, and himself had all grown in the facility, all had comparable social and educational experiences, why was it that they left as strong willed adults, and he never matured?

  Why hadn't he matured? Wasn't maturity supposed to come with age? He was twenty-eight years old, if maturity hadn't come by now it never would. Ten years ago he'd left GenDec. They'd arranged for him to stay at a short-term apartment and set him up with a decent property and casualty adjuster course, and since then he'd been working with Quality Heart Insurance.

  Routine, and that's what kept him on his path. Routine was familiar, and familiarity contained no fear. You had to face your fears to mature, he thought, you had to leave your comfort zone, and he never had. That was why he never matured. With that thought he felt his fear turn into anger. Finally he had nerve enough to turn his car around.

  Face it–Claire was dead. He wondered how much blood there'd be. How fucked he'd be. He laughed at himself, telling the agent that he'd lost respect for Claire, that he still didn't have a crush on her. Sure, that'd made the agent respect him more, sure. It certainly was an odd feeling when your own life made you cringe.

  He'd always resented Pat for getting close to her. He was the one who had pointed her out to him during lunch, before the piss incident. He was the one who'd convinced Pat to go talk to her, pretending (God knows why) that he didn't have a crush on her. But he did. Fucking Pat had been ruining his life since day one, and now this. An insanely attractive woman in his house, who, aside from the death threats, had been relatively kind to him–now dead in his home. He prayed that wasn't the case, he prayed that her car was long gone, and the ambulance long gone, and that he could sit on his couch and in time forget this whole incident. But he knew that wouldn't be the case long before he turned onto his street.

  He looked down his neighborhood and his stomach crashed to China.

  "Fuck."

  The ambulance and Claire's car were still there. Tears of fury boiled his eyes, and he considered turning around and fleeing. He'd be an accomplice–no, he could say they broke into his house. In separate cars… to get murdered… it was a robbery gone wrong–in separate cars. That made no sense, there was no other logical explanation.

  With no remaining options, he parked his car, fighting against every fiber of his being that screamed for him to run. "I'm sorry, Cla
ire" he whispered to her ghost, surely still lingering around his home. He'd have to move far away, quickly.

  Approaching his front door, he first took a deep breath then turned the nob. It was unlocked. His stomach dropped, and he closed his eyes and pushed it open. It creaked, and light rushed into his home as cool conditioned air escaped. Opening his eyes slightly, squinting, he glanced around. Not only could he find no trace of blood, but there was no trace of anyone. Sighing, he stepped inside.

  He looked around. No sign of a fight, but he noticed a gash on his wall by the door. Odd. But fixable. Odd though. What happened? Did Pat throw his knife at her and miss? Maybe he threw it as she escaped, and maybe she hadn't had time to hop into her car. Maybe he was chasing her now, both on foot.

  He walked to the center of his living room. He looked at the ground–a knife. Pat's knife. No blood. Odd. Maybe when she ran he dropped it and chased her without it? Maybe she got away?

  The he heard something. A moan. Seemingly from his bedroom. So she hadn't run, or hadn't gotten away. Definitely an odd vocalization for a woman being strangled or beaten to death. Definitely odd. He walked over to his bedroom–the door was shut, he put his hand on the handle, closed his eyes, and pulled it open.

  He glanced and saw everything, and turned scarlet so quickly he grew lightheaded. He was struck dumb–deer in headlights. Pat turned.

  "Get out of here, Sam!"

  Sam looked down, face on fire, and meekly apologized, shut the door, and returned to the living room. What the–what? He wanted to puke, from anger, from humiliation, from envy, from hatred, from embarrassment, from murderous rage. The thought took up every inch of brain space, blocking off any other thought. The sight burned into his mind and refused to budge, replaying over and over. The woman he loved, having sex with the man he feared (and somewhat admired) in his bed.

  Pure disgust enveloped his entire being. He wanted to jump into a vat of acid and feel the humiliation of his flesh boil away. He rocked back and forth on the sofa. It wasn't as bad as her dead, but at the same time–it was worse.

  A minute later his bedroom door opened, and Claire, fully dressed, flushed and glowing, didn't look nor acknowledge that Sam existed and that he'd seen her and Pat, doing that.

  Pat followed, bragging the buckle of his belt closed with a look of pride and victory. No, not just victory–complete annihilation. Sam noticed the slightest hiccup in Claire's walk, he might've imagined it, but at that moment would've gladly bathed in Pat's blood.

  Claire left Sam's pink little bungalow with neither word nor wave. Pat looked at Sam.

  "I'm going to go figure out what to do about that ambulance," he said. "See you around, Sam."

  Sam glared at his coffee table, hoping it would erupt and send shards of marble into Pat, tearing his flesh like a tissue in a tsunami. He had to stop him, but words were like oil through his fingers, and he couldn't form a coherent thought.

  "Wait," he said, sputtering.

  Pat turned and raised an eyebrow. Sam continued.

  "H-how could you do this to me?"

  Pat smirked. "Do what?"

  "Her."

  Sam felt himself shivering, his hands twitched between bouncing knees. Pat shrugged.

  "Your whole life you've pretended not to like her. You could've been bold, but you weren't, and you aren't. It's just how you are. The tough decisions you haven't made."

  Pat's eyebrows raised compassionately, and he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, then continued.

  "Some people do tremendous good. Others tremendous evil. They're the ones that change the world and get the girls," he said. Sam looked at his shoes, and Pat sighed.

  "Then there's you Sam," he continued. "Content, complacent, meek–and when the universe blinks and your life flickers it'll be as if you never existed. I can't imagine a worse fate. I feel sorry for you Sam, I really do."

  Pat withdrew his hand and walked to where he dropped his knife.

  "I'll see you around," he said, picking it up. And Sam watched wordlessly, broken, as Pat opened the door and left.

  As it shut behind him, Sam stood and looked out the window, watching Pat cross his front yard to the ambulance, eyes heavy with fury, and whispered.

  "I'm going to kill you if it's the last thing I do."

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Claire pulled over to the side of the road and screamed. She slammed her hands down onto her steering wheel and screamed again. She lost, she knew the game, she invented the game, she knew all the rules, and she'd still lost. And Pat knew it too.

  She could claim he raped her. No she couldn't. The least appropriate adjective describing Claire Waltz in any language of the universe was 'victim'. Victims get raped. And not only did she know she wasn't a victim, but the allegation alone would allow others to perceive her as weak. The facts were simple–she lost. She lost, and that would rest on her shoulders forever. She didn't even enjoy it. Well, she kind of enjoyed it, but not because it was him. No, well maybe it felt nice to be used for a change. It may have been nice to open up to someone. She'd been weak, that much was clear, and now there was no denying it, she'd loved it.

  So this marked the end of her life, she thought. No matter what she did now–even if she became President of the United-fucking-States, there'd still be Pat, with his grin, his knowing eyes, staring at her, smiling, thinking "Claire, you're good–but I'm better." He could say it without a word–"I beat you at your own game."

  She screamed again. Oh, how easy would it have been to reject his advance. She could have humiliated him. She could have left there, head held high, Pat defeated. Yes it's lonely at the top, but she'd known that–it was her game. It got to her, is all. The top got to her, and now, in a moment of weakness, she'd lost it all. She couldn't succumb to a relationship with him. He would laugh, and regardless of what he'd say, she'd know he used her. Plain and simple. And she'd loved it.

  Someone existed who beat her at her own game. That was the thought that drove her crazy. If Pat could just not exist–if he could just die, that would be it. Nobody would know and that moment will have never existed.

  She transitioned her car to drive and continued down the road. No, the game wasn't over yet. She felt her confidence rebound as she drove, and as she locked eyes with her reflection in the rear view mirror, she spoke with a blood-dripping grin.

  "Patches Shane is a walking dead-man."

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Former Special Agent Chris Summers increased the volume of his Led Zeppelin and shook the moisture from his exhausted red eyes as he drove. Stairway to Heaven, a childhood favorite, exploded from his speakers and approached his favorite part as he considered his options.

  He considered the similarities between Michael and Pat Shane. The kid and the man from GenDec.

  If anything, Pat Shane likely was Michael back then, at least before Claire Waltz. The mindset the school promoted was deadly.

  The highway was empty at this late hour as Summers approached 100mph. What if Michael had a fear exactly like Shane's? What if Shane's mindset is exactly Michael's?

  Summers took a deep breath and shook his head. What if Shane's goal is exactly the same as Michael's, but on a far larger scale?

  If that was the case, Summers realized, nothing outside of death would stop him.

  "Your stairway lies on the whispering winnndooooh ohhhh"

  He felt sick. Without even a job as ammunition to fight Shane, and powerless to shut down GenDec, what was he supposed to do? What could he do now, trapped in a world so bent on saving itself it was willing to sacrifice its own humanity? Shane was just a result of the times, a weapon built from their fear.

  It arose from the simple mindset that good people do good things and bad people do bad things. But situations always arose that forced good people to do bad things, likewise bad people to do good things. And in society as it was constructed, it came down to what a person did that determined their fate, not who they were.

  Good people who made mistakes,
who acted in a manner which their moral compass designated was in the right, who did their best and fell short, paid for their crimes. On the other hand, bad people who understood the flaws of the system could cheat it and never atone.

  Summers knew Shane wasn't morally corrupt–he simply perceived his world as it revealed itself to him–as a place of fear and paranoia, perpetually fighting and losing against an invisible foe.

  Society advanced laws, technology, and punishment in every direction aside from internally. They simply over-compensated for non-existent technology.

  If a man's conscience could be quantified, would it be possible to know if a person was morally just or corrupt before being deemed so by their actions? And if that was possible, could the corrupt be preemptively punished? Could the just be given leeway? How far from the soul did the almost-parallel lines of crime and punishment eventually cross?

  Even the most honest man's moral line couldn't possibly run completely parallel to the laws. Society's flaw was that its moral compass spun in a magnet shell where "good" and "evil" were a matter of perspective, with thousands of true norths. The fact of the matter was that the bad weren't the only ones found guilty of crossing society's guidelines of good, but rehabilitating a man's character before he crossed, based on society's–no, humanity's guidelines, would likely crush the foundation of those guidelines.

  "AND AS WE WIND ON DOWN THE ROAD"

  That singular moment when Summers realized for the first time that his values and the laws did not run parallel was an earth shattering realization for him, and at that moment he knew what he had to do.

  "OUR SHADOWS TALLER THAN OUR SOUL"

  He had seen first hand what GenDec did to those kids, not as a morally corrupt facility, but as an over-compensation built from paranoia. Shane wasn't corrupt. Misguided, yes, horribly misguided, but not corrupt.

  "THERE WALKS A LADY WE ALL KNOW"

  But if a man strapped with explosives was running at a building filled with innocent people, you have to stop the man, regardless of who strapped and armed the explosives and sent the man running.