The Harbinger Break

by Adams, Zachary

  Summers renewed the vigor of his search, but to no benefit. The time it took to carefully search the kitchen felt like hours. Summers took every necessary and every unnecessary precaution he could think of to not wake Berry, although it was up to Penelope to ensure their target remained asleep. Regardless of his detailing, he found neither incriminating evidence nor the keys–and time was running out.

  How Berry managed to sleep at night considering the horrors the man committed daily left Summers with the sense that The Warden was nothing less than a sociopath. Torturing innocent children, it was insanity. The national paranoia made it simple for a majority of the country to forget their amendments. No cruel and unusual punishment was fine and dandy until the safety of the planet was on the line. Then cruel and unusual punishment turned into "doing what's best to ensure man's survival".

  Summers left the kitchen and entered the living room, tripping over a newspaper on the floor just as Penelope exited Berry's bedroom. He flashed Summers a thumbs up, who in return flashed Penelope a thumbs down, and Penelope frowned and began helping Summers scour the floor and tables for Berry's keys.

  Was humanity such an easily compromised ideal? Summers could understand the reasoning behind the FBE. Considering the alternative and what he'd witnessed, castrating convicted criminals seemed more humane than the death penalty. Not to mention the fear of castration seemed to prevent more crimes than any other punishment. "Take my life, take my freedom, just leave my balls out of it" seemed a common mantra that the castration punishment shattered, and crime rates fell noticeably with the implementation of the FBE.

  But torturing children of convicted criminals seemed ruthless. Were people born bad, or were they raised in an environment that left them no choice? Summers firmly believed the latter, although the former thought had a significant following, especially with the more spiritual, everlasting-soul types.

  It seemed humanity was at a disastrous pinnacle of helplessness–wise enough to recognize the threat, too weak to defend itself. The worst time period to discover aliens.

  Summers and Penelope found the keys by the front door, annoyingly enough, as they'd both overlooked the most obvious spot.

  Shrugging off their fault, the two men left Berry's residence and locked the door behind them. Worst come to worst, if Berry awoke before they returned, hopefully he'd think that he'd simply misplaced his keys in the mess of his home.

  They drove to GenDec and Penelope used Berry's fingerprint to unlock the front door. Summers noted the tympanum before he walked inside, and reread the passage. "By the sins of the father…"

  It was hypocritical. GenDec was just as much a punishment, if not more so, than the FBE familial castration executive.

  The two men snuck inside and Penelope followed Summers as they made their way to the "Principal's Office".

  To Summers, GenDec felt haunted as he and Penelope traversed the dark stone hallways, and he shuddered as he felt Michael's presence within the cement.

  They found Berry's office door, unlocked it with the keys, and entered. The waiting room was completely dark. They flicked on their flashlights and walked past the secretary's desk, then used the keys to unlock the door to Berry's office. They turned on the lights and began snooping around.

  The portrait of Berry on the back wall seemed to stare at the pair, but Summers quickly turned his attention to the large cabinets in the back he'd spotted days prior, and he couldn't unlock them fast enough.

  He opened one after the other, withdrawing files upon files. They were labeled alphabetically, and the two men began searching them, planning to steal all evidence of torture done to the kids. They hoped after the media ran stories of the torture committed at GenDec, with detailed documentation to back them up, the public outrage would be enough to shut the facility down for good.

  Tossing aside "Hewitt, L", the next file that caught Summers’ eye held it.

  "Higgins, S."

  He withdrew the folder from the cabinet, wiped off the dust, and opened it. Inside, he saw a picture of Sam as a boy and detailed documentation of his time at GenDec. But something else jumped out at him.

  Sam's parentage was missing.

  Further down the file, written in Barry's handwriting, was a small, barely legible note.

  It read: "Higgins, adopted by the foundation for his meek demeanor, will be utilized as not only a control subject as to the validity of the program but as a statistic to bolster the success of the method."

  Summers, dumbfounded, reread the blurb twice more.

  There was no mistaking it–they used Sam to improve the statistical success of the program. This finding was better than he'd dared hope. This tiny paragraph in Berry's handwriting completely negated every test done at GenDec. This would, without a doubt, end public funding. Taxpayers would be furious–Berry could be brought to court. It was too good to be true.

  Out of curiosity, he searched for Pat Shane's file next. He told Penelope to search for it too, but after a moment it was obvious that the file was missing, the names jumping from "Sellers, G" to "Smith, W."

  It seemed obvious to Summers that after the incident, Berry did something with the file, possibly to spite the FBE, possibly because it contained some details Berry preferred remain hidden. Not surprising, Summers thought, considering the files’ contents detailed the horrific "conditioning" that happened at the facility.

  Summers took a deep breath and smiled at Penelope, who turned to Summers and shared his elation.

  They were about to stand and leave when at that moment, they heard a click and air rushing, the unmistakable sound of a door opening outside. The two men looked at each other wide eyed, and a cloud passed over Penelope's eyes. Not good.

  They heard footsteps cross the waiting room, then watched in horror, dumbstruck, as the handle of Berry's office turned.

  Jumping to their feet, they could do nothing but watch. Daniel Berry entered his office, almost casually if not for the gun he held already pointed at the pair.

  Summers watched Berry's gaze start at the folders in their hands and drift downwards to the mess of folders on the floor. Blood drained from every face in the room.

  Berry didn't say a word, nor show a hint of anger or surprise.

  That instant his gun erupted, and Summers barely had time to flinch. Penelope cried out, crashing backwards, and blood splattered on the cabinets behind them. Berry turned his aim onto Summers.

  Pure primal reflex surged, and quicker than he could think, he ducked behind the desk a moment before the explosion and felt a bullet whizz over his head, burning his scalp.

  Summers opened the desk drawer frantically as Berry walked towards him at a murderer's pace. Digging around, Summers silently prayed that Berry kept a weapon there. He grabbed the first hefty item he felt–a stapler. It'd have to do, Summers thought as his body automatically primed itself to attack, his pulse a rattling engine.

  Berry turned the corner, and as soon as Summers saw the gun he lunged. He grabbed Berry's gun arm with his right hand and pulled it, throwing Berry off balance, and with his left hand he smashed the stapler into the back of Berry's head.

  Berry cried out and dropped. He tried rolling onto his back to fire his weapon, but Summers fell on top of him with his full weight behind the stapler. It slammed directly onto Berry's forehead, smashing his head against the floor with a sickening crack.

  Summers jumped to his feet and stared, shocked. Disfiguring Berry's forehead there was now a one inch deep stapler indent, a delta of leaking blood.

  There was no mistaking it–he'd killed Berry, and his stomach imploded. He stumbled away from the corpse and shook his head. So that was it. Hope Michael was watching.

  He turned to check on Penelope, and sighed with relief to find him still breathing, albeit unconscious, blood dripping from a large dark stain on his right shoulder.

  Acting quickly, Summers cut and ripped off a few strips of Berry's pants and wrapped them as tightly at he could around Penelope's shou
lder, using two strips balled up on either side of the wound for additional pressure.

  He had to stop the bleeding. Judging by the puddle, his friend had already lost at least a liter of blood. Then again, puddles of blood always looked deceivingly large.

  Taking Penelope's good arm, Summers lifted his unconscious friend's weight onto his back and lumbered out of the office, feeling Berry's unseeing eyes on his back.

  Doorknob in one hand, friend and folder in the other, Summers pulled, thinking that epinephrine was a hell of a drug. Walking past the security cameras as he carried Penelope out of GenDec, Summers inwardly thanked his friend for suggesting they wear masks.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Sam parked his car at Arlow bakery. During the drive he'd considered forgoing the mission about ten times and he'd even turned his car around twice, but changed his mind and turned back around, continuing to Tennessee with a feather of resolve.

  It was the curiosity that kept him on track. He had to discover the common denominator–the ingredient that contained alien poison, or whatever it was that caused withdrawal when one abstained from processed foods.

  The parking lot was large and relatively empty, and guest parking seemed nonexistent. Not surprising, Sam thought, wondering how often bakeries such as Arlow received guests.

  But he wasn't a guest–he was investigating, albeit completely void of a plan.

  Well that wasn't completely true. His plan was to walk in and flat out ask about drugged food. Worst come to worst, they laugh in his face and kick him out–wouldn't be the first time.

  Taking a deep breath, he finally stepped foot outside his car.

  The bakery itself was surprisingly more comparable to an office building than an industrial complex. He'd imagined a building with smoke stacks and bricks, but instead, large glass plate windows lined the blue-hued complex, and from the outside it could've been just another Quality Heart Insurance.

  Walking inside, he noted immediately the lack of flour on the floor, instead greeted by pristine white tile and a bored secretary whining apathetically on the phone. She covered the speaker end as he nervously approached.

  He had half a mind to turn around, and the only reason he didn't was because he thought that'd be embarrassing. That thought was immediately followed by the question as to why he even cared about what a stranger thought.

  "Can I help you?" she asked apathetically.

  "Um. Yes."

  She waited for him to continue, but he had no idea how to pursue his vague train of thought. He couldn't just ask the secretary. What would he even ask? He was grasping at greasy needles with glass fingers, and no line of questioning seemed remotely reasonable under any context. He couldn't ask, "are you aware of drugs in your products?". They would toss him face first onto the pavement outside or have buff security guards drag him out without a second thought. He wondered if this facility even employed security guards. It seemed unlikely.

  "Um," Sam scratched his head, feeling that familiar flush rush to his cheeks. "I'm concerned about the contents of your food."

  The secretary looked at him and then glanced around the room, as if searching for a hidden camera, revealing the setup of a prank. Finding none, she turned back to Sam.

  "Did you try calling?" she asked.

  He shook his head. No he didn't. She had no idea what he intended to talk about. It wasn't an over-the-phone matter.

  "Well, you see," Sam said, digging his hands into his pockets and feeling his cellphone. "I-I don't have a cellphone."

  The secretary raised an appraising eyebrow, then relented and pressed a button on her intercom.

  "George?" she asked after the buzz.

  It buzzed back, "Yeah?"

  "I have someone here who wants to speak to you."

  George didn't respond for a moment. Sam felt himself cringing, waiting for the inevitable orders that he be kicked out.

  "Just a matter of time," George finally replied. "Send him in."

  The secretary glanced at Sam curiously as she pressed the buzzer. "Sending him in now."

  Sam was stunned. He couldn't believe it. From what George had said it sounded as if he expected someone. Sam wondered if George would flip out when he realized that Sam was obviously not the person he expected.

  The secretary pointed Sam through glass double doors, through a hallway, up the elevator to the third, top floor, and to the furthest room down the hall. He thanked her, straightened his tie, and marched away.

  Following her instructions, he passed portraits of employees and pictures of baked goods. He pressed the call button by the elevator, and studied the pictures of bread, bagels, and muffins for a moment before the elevator doors opened and he turned away and stepped inside. He rode the elevator to the third floor, walked down the hall and knocked on the furthest door.

  "Come in," George said immediately.

  Sam took a deep breath, then turned the brass knob and entered the large office.

  George stood with his back to Sam, staring out the large window behind his large wooden desk. There was a bookshelf to the left and a bathroom to the right. A black leather sofa sat on the side of the desk closest to Sam, angled towards the window. The room vaguely smelled like a new car, with a hint of sugar.

  "I'm tired of keeping silent. You ready for your scoop?"

  Sam paused. George must've thought he was a journalist. That could work.

  "Sam Higgins. You were expecting me?"

  "Not you specifically, no. But I've heard word of the public discovering wisps of the truth, and months ago I resolved to spill when your kind finally came knocking."

  Sam withdrew his cellphone. A journalist would've had some kind of recording device–but his phone was all he had. It'd do more than fine though.

  But what George had said sounded too good to be true. Proof. Sam could barely contain his excitement.

  "You mind if I record this?" Sam asked.

  George continued looking out his window. "By all means. Ask the question."

  So here it was, Sam thought. Time to lay his hand out on the table. If he was wrong–if his question wasn't the question–the jig was up.

  Sam cleared his throat. "There's something in the food."

  George didn't respond.

  After a moment, Sam continued. "Something people are addicted to. Drugs."

  George remained silent, and Sam's heart pounded in his chest. Why wasn't he responding?

  Then Sam's heart felt as if it'd arrested completely–what if George was an alien?

  He began to back petal towards the door. That's when George finally spoke.

  "You're right," he said, still looking out the window.

  Sam froze. He wanted to call 9-1-1, but knew he'd be killed within seconds of doing so.

  "You're right," George continued. "This is bad."

  As he finished speaking, he finally turned around.

  From what Sam could tell, George was an older man–in his late sixties at least, with heavy skin weighing down his distraught face. He looked as if the burden of the world had been taking its toll for quite some time, and Sam could tell that George was about to relieve it.

  "In the dawn of the 20th century, chemists discovered that fairly common conditions of the time such as goiter and mental retardation were caused by an iodine deficiency in the diet of the general public," George began. "The chemical iodine is inexpensive and fairly little is needed to offset such conditions, and in 1924 a researcher named David Cowie suggested to a certain salt producer to add iodine to their product, an ingenious method of prevention."

  George motioned for Sam to sit in the leather chair across his desk, then sat himself, the two men facing each other. Sam placed his phone on the table. George glanced at it, then continued.

  "Unrelated at the time, in 1983 Morgan Scott requested that the Department of Science research means to increasing intelligence. It wasn't until 1989 that a chemist by the name of Francis Holcomb discovered that the chemical element astatine, which
had inadvertently become abundant during the testing and eventual failure of teleportation technology, when flash frozen to salt, slowly increased the perceived intelligence of laboratory rats.

  "In 1989, President Ernest Dale, under the perpetually imminent alien threat, acted not only too quickly but against the better judgment of Francis Holcomb and realized Morgan Scott's plan, sending funds and means to salt producers nationwide. My company was told to use certain, specific brands of salt. The treatment proved to be an intensely guarded secret, and likely the government's cruelest failure. It took me some time to discover this, and by then it was too late. Not only did the astatinized salt not effect in any noticeable way a person's IQ, but they–we–discovered too late that the population grew addicted to the salt, and that withdrawal from an astatine addiction was deadly."

  "Which explains the hallucinations," Sam said.

  "Yes."

  Sam searched for a second question, but found himself shocked speechless as he absorbed the information. He'd been right–Pat was right. Sam thought the food was poisoned–sure, but never expected anything to come of it, especially by him. But there was no avoiding it–the drugs did, in fact, exist. And he, of all people, discovered it.

  Sam closed his eyes. "T-taking the chemical–um–"

  "Astatine."

  "Yes. Taking astatine out of the salt would result in, um–well, a countrywide withdrawal?"

  "Society would likely collapse. Production would stop, mass rehabilitation facilities and drugs would need to be manufactured–but by whom? And with what funding? The budget is maxed as is with the space relays and defense appropriation. America just can't afford to deal with a complete production shut down.

  "But this secret isn't mine anymore–it's yours now. It's yours to do with what you will. The burden of knowledge–that the entire population is drugged and that we can't afford to do anything about it…" George sighed. "Do with it what you will."

  "What if you just began adding less astatinized salt to bread, mixed un-drugged salt with it–slowly lowered the dose?"