The Harbinger Break

by Adams, Zachary

  The phone continued vibrating, and he considered ignoring the call. With ease she could inadvertently turn his tough outer shell into a little boy curled up underneath a desk–and he just wanted to recover, not reflect. But after one more ring he answered it anyway.

  "Paige."

  "Chris."

  The simple inflection of how she said his name would've brought a lesser man to tears.

  "What are you going to do now?" she continued after a moment. It was a good question, and it took his mind off his frustration and sadness.

  He'd begun designing a plan earlier when he'd been driving back. After his parents’ deaths, Summers quickly learned that the best solution for a sulking mind was a simple distraction, and forming a plan helped keep him motivated.

  He'd begun with the problems–simple: GenDec and Shane. He considered planning the assassination of Shane first, but found planning the downfall of GenDec more challenging, useful, and honorable than the former. But it'd require Paige's help, and he wasn't ready to share his idea with her just yet. Involving her just stood to condemn her if shit hit the fan, and he wasn't prepared to do that until his plan reduced failure to a near impossibility. Before he could lie, however, she spoke.

  "You're planning on shutting down GenDec, aren't you?"

  He reminded himself to never play poker with her.

  "That obvious?"

  "We've met once or twice, handsome."

  He sighed. "It's a bad place, Paige. I'm not saying I'm innocent concerning that boy's death. But GenDec sure isn't either."

  She took a breath. "You sound excited."

  "Not exactly excited–it almost feels like adrenaline, like getting back to why I got into this line of work."

  She paused before responding. "Do you regret taking the promotion?"

  He scratched his head. "No. I met you, didn't I?"

  "Look at you," she said softly. "Getting all sentimental on me."

  "Yep. Alright, I'll call you–I have to figure out my next step."

  "Sounds good. Take care, Chris."

  He hung up and stared at his phone. Well, this was as good a time as any, he thought as he scrolled through his list of contacts.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Ten hours after her ordeal, just after midnight, Claire locked the door of her New York estate and dropped her bag carelessly on the marble floor. Accustomed to traveling for business, she sometimes spent weeks at a time away from home, but had never felt so mentally and emotionally exhausted as she did now. And this trip had only been a single night. She walked into the kitchen, mind in a daze, and began steeping a glass of tea while staring hatefully at one of her nudist paintings.

  Thoughts of Shane attempted to claw from the tomb of her subconscious, but she fended them off skillfully. She already repressed a majority of her life's memories, what was another hour or two? She could always deal with that memory later–for now, she had one thought stewing: the means to a perfect murder.

  She formed a list. First, her assets. Money, check. Brains, check. Looks, check. She laughed at her vanity. That was all she needed–everything else would come with the plan. But she continued on with her list.

  The perfect murder meant never being associated with the crime. Nothing remotely pointing to her. Which meant, to be safe, she couldn't be in the same state as Pat from now on. She would have to work remotely, use her considerable means (refer back to assets) to use people, set up a plan.

  What did she know about Pat? He was smart, but also crazy. It all came down to delusions with him. Delusions of grandeur, paranoia, aliens. He was crazy, but she had to admit, there was logic to his alien rant.

  She watched bubbles form at the bottom of the pot as water began to boil. How interesting would it be if Pat was an alien, manipulating everyone? Could convincing the crazy man that he's an alien be done? And then have him kill himself? She tossed a few ideas at the wall, but nothing seemed to hold–he was too clever for a trick like that, not to mention pulling it off remotely would be near impossible.

  But utilizing his fear of aliens as means to his death wasn't garbage just yet. She realized that manipulating Pat to think he's an alien might be impossible, but what about manipulating everyone else?

  She twirled locks of hair around her index finger. That could work, she thought. Manipulate those swayed by Pat's reasoning to think he's an alien, then wait for those swayed to kill him.

  She laughed aloud, unable to help herself–oh how beautifully ironic that would be–watching as he pursued his noble quest, trying to convince people that aliens were among them, and then having those same people turn against him. How demoralizing, humiliating, and pitiful his last moments would be, oh, how pathetic he'd feel. The master of his own demise, the architect of his own collapse. Yes, that had to be it.

  She sat down at the kitchen table with her tea, grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen, and began scrawling, chuckling to herself every now and then. Twenty minutes later, her sheet plastered with notes, she grabbed her cellphone and gave Lee White another call. She wasn't calling in a favor again. No, this time, she assured him, it was a job, and she bought his silence and his loyalty with a quick $200,000 dollar transfer, promising him the other $800,000 on completion. She hung up as she heard him scurrying to pack his bags.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Sam Higgins paced his living room with unbridled fury, flames chasing his heels, crushing charred imprints into his carpet. Pat had to die, but fuck if he wasn't onto something with his crazy theories. He had to kill Pat, that fact wasn't optional, but what about saving the world? Sam sat on the couch and breathed deeply, dealing with an array of never-before-felt emotions. Well, he could save the world. What if he killed Pat and then took the savior's heroic glory for himself? That didn't sound too shabby. He would finally receive not only positive attention, but respect. Now that didn't sound too bad at all.

  He began garbaging food from his fridge by the pound. Anything with an expiration date he deemed expired, and he didn't look twice at his frozen corn dogs, fudge popsicles, pudding, even his orange juice. He cringed as he remembered the last time he had a glass and tossed the carton into the garbage as if it were a live grenade.

  Once his home was free of poison, he drove to a local farmers market and purchased fresh fruit and meats. The men and women there had a healthy, spunky glow about them, one that Sam couldn't help but admire. His skin felt gray in comparison. This food change would be better for his health than he'd at first expected. Frozen corn dogs were only good up until the moment after the last bite. He hoped that this diet change would help mend the bridge between him, his scorned stomach, and his frazzled mind.

  On his way home he passed the town hall and noticed a sign in front. A public forum was being held in a week. Sam made a mental note. No better place to start saving humanity than with the other public rights defenders and justice campaigners. Or so he thought.

  He'd begun his new diet immediately, and as the first five days passed Sam slowly descended to the pit of delirium. It had to be withdrawal, but he wasn't sure. The first day of fresh eating had been uneventful, but the next few days had weird sprites dancing in the outskirts of his periphery, and his stomach constantly churned and bubbled. He took sick leave from work, and remained in bed, attempting to repel the growing delusions with sleep–but losing.

  By the time the week rolled by he was completely delusional, and it was pure reflex that led him to a seat in town hall–his mind was busy spinning in circles and fighting off mental fairies that blindsided it regardless of the direction it faced.

  He took a seat in town hall–legs shaking, slight twitch, glancing around neurotically, trying to convince himself to bring up the drugged food–do it, no don't, they'll send you back, they'll cut off your nuts (you're nuts), they'll say you're crazy, crazy.

  The stage dripped perpetually, like everything else. The world around Sam dripped downwards, like a waterfall of walls and pictures, originating from upper cracks and corners in the
deepest parts of shadows. He tried to ignore the drowning sensation and focus his attention to the forum.

  "…I spotted one, over Creek and Atlantic," a woman said, standing from her chair, looking crazy. Or maybe that was him reflecting.

  The secretary nodded.

  "UFO claim noted," she said. "Any other witnesses? By show of hands…"

  Eight additional hands raised.

  "In what direction did it head?" she asked the same woman.

  "South! No, north! Which way does the sun set?"

  "West."

  "Then positively north! I'm n-nine out of ten percent sure, I mean percent, um. Sure," she said, then smiled, flashing missing teeth. Rumors of good money in spotting UFOs kept all idealistic unemployed eyes glued to the sky.

  "Anyone else see a UFO north of Creek and Atlantic?"

  "Aye!" a man said, jumping up, his torn Houston Oilers ball cap flying off his bowling-pin head.

  "On what date?"

  "The twenty-second! Yes'm ma'am!"

  Sam shook his head. His eyes were closed and he barely heard anyone. He didn't want to seem crazier than these people. They apparently attended every forum, claiming to have seen UFOs. Some sector of the government took notes of these reports and looked for patterns, but considering how many crazies reported, he'd be surprised if they actually obtained anything useful.

  The secretary nodded. "And on what date did you say that you saw that UFO?" she asked, turning to the woman.

  "The twenty-second!" she replied, and turned to smile at the bowling-pin head guy, who smiled back, and the fruits of love blossomed. He removed his hat and brushed back what little hair he had. She fluttered all sixteen eyelashes.

  The rest of the audience began murmuring and whispering excitedly. The secretary cleared her throat, ready to end the most degrading part of her month. "Alright then. Anyone with anything else?"

  The hall was silent and Sam realized that this was his moment. He stood.

  "Someone or something is drugging the food," he said.

  Chairs shuffled as attendees turned to look. Sam remained standing. Holding a straight face, the secretary nodded–she was familiar with crazy.

  "Mmhmm. When did this start?"

  "It's been going on for years. If you stop eating normal food, you'll begin to go through some kind of withdrawal."

  "Alright," she said. She glanced around. "Has anyone else noticed drugs in their food?"

  Missing teeth jumped to her feet. She spoke quickly, eyes darting around the room. "I have! I've been going through the withdrawal! I been getting dry mouth, glossy eyes, wet toenails, itchy arms–might be the meth, could be something else, now I'm just rambling, ramblin, ramblin." Her voice slowly faded as she returned to her seat.

  Someone up front coughed. The secretary nodded–she was a professional. Sam kept on. "I'd like the mayor to address this."

  She sighed. "The mayor isn't here now. You can write him a letter."

  Sam nodded. "Okay. A letter."

  Returning to his seat, he took a mental note, having had lost his nerve when she'd made eye-contact with him. He was world-class at recognizing leave-me-alone, but at least he'd planted a seed. It was all he could do.

  Back at his house, Sam loaded his computer and began typing:

  Dear Mr. Mayor,

  My Name is Sam Higgins, and I'm concerned

  about the drugs in our food. I have begun

  experiencing symptoms common with withdrawal,

  and I fear that this dangerous aspect of

  life is detrimental to society. If you could

  tell me what is in the food, that would help

  ease my distress. Thank you.

  Sincerely,

  Sam Higgins.

  Sam never received a response, but when the letter was found, it read:

  Mr. Higgins,

  I'm unaware of drugs in our food. I

  thank you for your query, but your fears

  are ungrounded. I advise you to speak

  with your primary physician about your

  symptoms, as withdrawal-like sickness

  can be caused by many other factors.

  Thank you for your time and concern.

  Respectfully yours,

  Mayor Jonathan Farbman

  Two days later, a fully recovered Sam heard the mayor was found dead in his home. He wondered if the mayor had even received his letter, and if he had, if he'd begun to ask questions.

  Chapter 8

  While the professor slept, recovering from the seventy-two hours straight he'd supposedly been awake, Cameron went out and talked with Brandon Holt and Jack Evans, telling them Shane's theories.

  He ushered them inside Brandon's house and shut the doors, glancing around suspiciously. His friends watched him with raised eyebrows.

  "What are you doing, Cam?" Jack asked. Cameron sat down on the couch and the two others followed suit.

  "Listen," Cameron said when he considered their conversation safe from prying ears. "I have reason to believe that the aliens are already here, and posing as someone, or even a few people in town, right now."

  Brandon raised a doubtful eyebrow, but Cameron knew his words hit home with Jack.

  "What makes you think that?" Brandon asked, interrupting Jack who was likely about to ask the same question.

  Cameron shrugged. "What makes you think they're not?" he replied, quoting his sleeping guest almost verbatim. "They landed here, they're millennia more advanced–what I'm saying is, why would they land, blind us all, get us all out into the open, then just leave?"

  His friends didn't respond, so he continued. "I'll tell you why. They pulled a switcheroo when all of us went outside. Pat Shane is a professor on this extra-terrestrial stuff and he's certain that not all of us who went outside went back inside–although it sure as hell looked like it."

  Brandon raised an eyebrow. "You're saying that an alien took someone's place."

  "That's exactly what I'm saying."

  Brandon and Jack took Cameron's words and shuffled them, not sure whether to be confused or skeptical. Birds chirped loudly outside and Cam looked out the window, half expecting someone to be standing there with a blank expression on their face. But he saw nothing aside from rustling leaves.

  Brandon followed Cameron's gaze. "So you're saying that anyone who went outside when the aliens landed might not be themselves?"

  "Yes."

  "Like, abducted?" asked Jack.

  "Yes."

  "That's at least ten people."

  Cameron started counting on his fingers. "I saw you two, Jack, your wife as well–and I saw both Scotts, Bernard and Belinda, and Mitch Anderson."

  "I saw Andy and Leola Perkins," said Jack.

  "And I saw Nick Robins and Jordan Wood," said Brandon. "I've seen them since though, and they seem the same."

  "You can't be sure," said Cameron. "The aliens might've been spying for a while before they landed."

  "True," said Brandon.

  "So that leaves Mark and Marilyn Herman and Stanley and Lindsey Lang unaccounted for," said Jack.

  Cameron sighed. "Even if you saw them, we can't be sure. Nobody kept a constant eye on anyone else."

  Brandon punched his hand. "We need some kind of plan."

  "Kind of makes you wish we'd thought of some secret code," Jack said. "You know, to confirm we are who we say we are in case of something like this."

  Cameron shrugged. "Too late now."

  He closed his eyes. How could the three of them together figure out who had been replaced?

  "Jack, Brandon–you guys have any ideas?"

  Brandon shook his head. Jack scratched his.

  "We could throw one of those suburban parties," Jack said.

  Brandon shook his head and grinned. "Now doesn't seem like the time for that, pal."

  "That's obviously not what I mean," Jack said. "We could get everyone in the same place and figure out who's not acting normally, watching how everyone interacts with e
veryone else."

  Cameron nodded. "I like it. I'll talk to Caroline–we'll throw it at my place. We can introduce the professor then too."

  "Alright, I'm in," Brandon said. "I'll bring the dip."

  The party turned out, not a single person declined the invitation, and as Cameron walked around thinking of his secret guest upstairs, he wondered how his friends and neighbors would react when they discovered the real reason for the gathering.

  Caroline had acted wonderfully–within a few hours she'd managed to conjure enough food and drink to suit all seventeen guests. Cameron wandered around with his glass of champagne, studying everyone for hints of abnormal activity.

  He'd quickly discovered that the recent UFO landing was the talk of the town, and his party invitation was less accepted for a want of food and merriment and more as means to obtaining information. Which made Cameron's job all the more difficult.

  Nick Robins approached with an outstretched hand. Cameron shook it.

  "So," Nick said. "What do you make of our recent extra-terrestrial guests?"

  Cameron laughed. Nick was an outgoing guy. He was openly homosexual–but by 'openly', he 'openly' talked about it, and aside from that Cameron saw no evidence whatsoever of Nick's sexual orientation. His friends agreed that Nick was the straightest gay man they'd ever met.

  "I don't know," Cameron said. He attempted to take a casual sip of champagne. "What do you make of it?"

  Nick shrugged. "Not sure. There's definitely an ill-at-ease pervading our neighborhood. I think half of us are afraid of the aliens, and the other half are afraid of how our Radicalist government will treat us once they find out we've been subject to near alien contact."

  Cameron took another casual sip of champagne, thinking as he did so that his repeated attempts at acting casual must be glaringly obvious. "So which side are you on?" he asked.