George shook his head. "People would inadvertently eat more to achieve the same amount of astatine they've grown accustomed to."
Sam shook his head and sighed. They were certainly in a heap of trouble.
He had one more question that'd been burning his mind.
"Is it possible at all that the aliens are directly or indirectly involved with this?" he asked.
George paused, stunned by the question. That was apparently something he'd never considered. "What do you mean?"
"I've never heard of astatine, b-but is it possible that the element is abundant on Europa, or on the aliens’ home planet, and they, you know, somehow manipulated humanity into poisoning itself?"
George closed his eyes. "I'm not the one you should be asking–I just make the dough. We put salt in the dough, slight amounts, but that's a common practice everywhere. People are being drugged, and there's nothing we can do to stop it without forfeiting our safety and sanity."
Sam left George's office, holding his stoic, journalistic act until he'd wordlessly left the building and collapsed in his car.
So that was it, Sam thought, frowning. The entire nation was addicted to some random chemical. The chemical…
Sam pulled out his phone and did a quick internet search. Yes–apparently astatine was extremely rare. Rare, that is, on Earth.
The teleportation technology excuse was too vague to be denied, but it was certainly possible that the astatine was introduced and manipulated into humanity's diet by aliens.
Sam had hoped for resolution with this investigation, and was certain that when he sat down to talk to George, he'd finally have answers, but found himself instead alone in his car, over a thousand miles from home, with even more questions than ever before.
Was the astatine really discovered accidentally, or was that just a cover-up to hide the truth–a cover-up orchestrated by the aliens to have the humans completely under their control?
Was there any way to simply and safely rehabilitate humanity?
Was there anything he could do? Anyone he could tell?
Was there anyone he could trust?
It was incredibly frightening. If the aliens wanted to destroy civilization, all they had to do was remove the astatine. Their battle was already won, regardless of whether or not they'd manufactured the addiction.
Sam felt his pulse rising, realizing that wherever lay the truth, it was rotten–and society, along with humanity, was on the brink of collapse.
◊ ◊ ◊
Claire's phone buzzed.
"Just bought a gun," the text from Lee read.
She didn't respond, instead pocketing her phone and chuckling, doubting Lee knew the first thing about firearms. Fortunately, her plan didn't require he need to.
◊ ◊ ◊
Lee awoke to knocking. He'd fallen asleep with the lights on. The glow of his laptop was a white blur as he sat up and scratched his head. The knock resounded so loudly that, if he hadn't known better, he would've thought it was construction. For a moment it shook him and he thought it was construction, but then he remembered the night auditor and the gun. He stood from the desk and sleepily lumbered over to the door, then pressed his face against it and looked through the peep hole. From his fish-eye angle of the hallway it looked empty, so he unlocked the door.
He checked both ways first, then looked down and saw a small package by his feet. It was a brown box, dented and obviously recycled judging from the torn stamps. He grabbed it, then shut the door and relocked it, resolving to wash his hands once he'd obtained its contents.
The box was surprisingly heavy and crudely secured, and Lee considered that it might not contain a gun, but a bomb or drugs.
Regardless, he still had to open it. No sense ordering a gun then tossing the package due to paranoia. He grabbed his knife and began cutting along the tape securing the box until it sprung open. Relief washed over him, for lying inside was exactly what he'd hoped it would contain.
It was black with a trigger. There was a box of odd-looking bullets next to it. He couldn't find an instruction manual, but he still felt a sense of security while holding it. After pointing it around as they do in films, he wondered if the police would be alerted if he searched the internet for instructions on basic gun use.
The wall clock read seven in the morning. Early enough to check out, he thought as he grew more uncomfortable by the second. It felt as if somehow someone would track him and arrest him for owning a gun, so he grabbed his things and left the room. He descended the stairs, checked out, and was on the road not twenty minutes later, gun carefully in tow.
Taking the byway north, he drove exactly the speed limit to the neighborhood where his extensive research revealed Sandra Evans lived: Sherwood Hills.
Now that he had a gun all the pieces were in place.
He found a circle of white colonial houses, seemingly surrounding a single shared backyard. He drove slowly, and found the neighborhood eerily empty. As he turned the bend, he finally saw a tall well-built man, unshaven with one eye slightly more slanted than the other. The man glared at Lee as he approached. Lee noticed blood almost immediately–and also noticed the gun that the man possessed.
Lee rolled down his window. This had to be the place–Pat Shane was surely nearby.
"Hey friend, sorry to bother you–"
The man cut him off. "–Keep driving if you know what's good for you."
Lee shivered but maintained his act–he'd come up with a plan a few days ago that he liked well enough to try.
"You mind telling me your name?" Lee asked.
The man picked up his gun and approached the car. "I don't see how my name's any of your business, friend."
"Then let me be frank," Lee said. "Are you an alien?"
The man blinked. "Am I a what?"
"An alien."
The man scratched his head and glanced at the sky. "What in the world," he said, then turned back to Lee. "No, I'm not an alien. But how–why–"
Lee interrupted him. "I'll ask again. What's your name?"
The man paused, then rubbed his nose with the back of his thumb and responded. "Brandon Holt. Yours?"
"Lee White. I'm looking for a male, mid to late twenties, goes by Shane, or Pat. We have reason to suspect–and you may find this hard to believe–but we have reason to suspect that he's an alien disguised as a man."
Brandon Holt closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Sir," he said. "That's not hard to believe at all, considering recent events."
Lee feigned surprise. "Really? Are you telling me that you've seen Pat Shane?"
"Yes sir that's exactly what I'm telling you, and he was just a murder suspect of an entire family not two hours ago, and definitely killed a fourth just a half hour back."
Lee nodded. "I see. That follows stories I've heard elsewhere. Yes, he creates panic and paranoia among communities, and you'd be wise to take that there rifle and snuff him out before he does the same to you, friend."
Brandon Holt squinted his eyes, scanning Lee's face for a tell. After a moment, he pointed his thumb over his shoulder at a house behind him.
"He's inside this home as we speak."
"Good," Lee said. "Shoot him, and save yourselves."
◊ ◊ ◊
As Shane washed blood off his hands, Jack Evans stood outside the bathroom on the phone with his wife, scared of the man inside the bathroom and scared of the men in the neighborhood outside. Brandon had left him alone to investigate further–both men uncertain of the professor after the curious circumstances in which he'd killed Mitch Anderson.
"Sandra, come over to the Thomas's now," Jack said into the phone. "Mitch is dead. The Thomas's are all dead. Nobody is safe. I'm with the professor now."
He hung up as Shane exited the bathroom.
"Don't trust Brandon," Shane said almost immediately.
Jack blinked. "What?"
Shane continued. "I don't trust him. Don't trust anyone for that matter, Jack. Don'
t even trust me. But you'd be unwise to trust Brandon as you do now. I don't like the way he just stumbled upon the corpses, and then was so quick to out Mitch."
Jack shook his head. He hated all of this. Without Brandon, he'd have no one. Andy Perkins maybe, but Andy and himself were almost too similar, and the fact that he didn't trust Andy seemed to say something about himself. If it came down to him versus Brandon, he'd lose that fight nine times out of ten.
"Brandon's been acting same as always," Jack said.
"You underestimate the prowess of the aliens if you think that mimicking human behavior is a task anything more than trivial to them."
Jack nodded, not agreeing with Shane, but keeping the notion in mind. It wasn't malicious advice, to be wary of friends, but simply the best way to remain living.
Shane nodded as well, and the two men made their way downstairs. Brandon Holt was outside with the car, and Shane would likely relay to him the same advice later, a notion that brought a lump to Jack's throat.
Three quick knocks resounded on the back patio door, and Jack opened it and embraced his trembling wife.
"The Thomas's are all dead?" Sandra asked.
"Yes," Jack said, holding her close.
"Charlie too?"
He paused and averted his gaze. It was really terrible. The aliens clearly felt nothing towards any humans, no remorse, not even towards children.
"Yes," he said softly.
Sandra's skin paled and Jack, arm around her waist, brought her to the couch where she collapsed and panted deeply.
"This is a nightmare," he said to Shane.
Shane nodded. "Which is exactly what they want," he said. "We have to keep our wits about us if we'd hope to survive."
Jack nodded. He'd definitely panicked earlier, but after a talk with Cameron the other day he'd calmed down. "So what should we do now?" he asked.
Shane scratched his head, "If I were you both, I would leave this town. In all honesty, I wish I could go with you."
"Just leave here?"
"This town of yours is doomed. Run while you still can. This is what they want, the aliens. Paranoia. Us too involved with killing each other. We can't win this way–you'd be safer on the run." He paused and sighed. "I wish there was another way, and I mean that with every ounce of my being."
Jack considered his words. "Would you tell anyone?"
"No, but you must be absolutely sure your spouse is the same as she was before this incident–Sandra, that goes for you too. Any divergence at all from the norm and you might not be traveling with your loved one, but into the waiting hands or claws of aliens."
Jack and Sandra looked at each other. Sandra looked at her husband skeptically, and he immediately knew why.
"Sandra, I've been acting erratically, I know, but as a reaction to the times. My behavior isn't abnormal for me, I know I've been acting strangely, but, like, too strangely–don't you think? Don't you think, Professor?"
Shane shook his head. "I wish I could confirm or deny how an alien posing as a human would act and where their act would falter, but the fact of the matter is that these are desperate times, and if your gut feels uncertain… well, it's us versus them, but more realistically, you alone versus them, and anyone–even everyone–could be an enemy."
Sandra shook her head. "I don't feel comfortable leaving with you Jack. Not right now, not yet."
His midsection dive-bombed. "I'm not an alien Sandra, I swear," Jack said, wanting to puke, looking at Shane for help.
Shane shook his head. "I'm sorry Jack, but that's exactly what an alien in disguise would say."
At that moment, knocking erupted on the front door, but the knocking suddenly stopped and the door swung open. There stood Brandon Holt with Andy Perkins, Stanley Lang, and Bernard Scott. With them was a man Jack had never seen before. And that man stepped forward, looking past Jack, at the professor.
"Pat Shane?"
Shane nodded. The man continued. "I'm Lee White, and we all know what you are and what you're trying to do here."
Brandon looked at Jack and Sandra, then raised his rifle at Shane.
"Sandra, come over here. Jack, step aside," Brandon said. "This man has been tracking Pat Shane for some time now. Apparently this isn't the first town he's been to where every resident was found dead. He's an alien, and he creates paranoia in towns to get everyone to wipe each other out." He took aim at Shane, who raised his arms, looking panicked. "Your reign of terror ends here, alien."
Shane shook his head and grinned nervously. "If you're certain I'm an alien, and if you're certain that my goal, albeit nonsensical, has been to bring awareness to the fact that one of you is an alien, outing myself, when I could have just as easily possessed or replaced one of you and silently killed the rest of you in the night–if you're certain that giving you nothing but knowledge has been a convoluted and illogical plan with the intent of killing you–then shoot me.
"But Lee, was it? Coming here all of a sudden, telling the others that I'm an alien when I've done more for the fight against their kind then anyone… Well, that seems kind of suspicious to me." He glared at the newcomer. "I've armed these people with knowledge, hoping they can save themselves. You've come here attempting to drive them mad, drive them to murder." He looked at Brandon, and then focused on the rifle. "Let me ask you, Holt: which behavior follows more closely the behavior of something that wants everyone dead?"
Brandon's finger trembled on the trigger, and Shane continued. "Next he'll claim that another one of you is an alien, and you'll kill each other off one by one, until it's just one of you and him, and he'll kill you and move on somewhere else. Please, I'm begging you–don't let them win that easily." He shrugged and looked at Jack, then back at Brandon. "You're right, I may be an alien, but don't forget to consider that he might be one too."
"I'm not an alien!" Lee shouted, stepping forwards and pointing at Shane. "From what I've heard, he's already killed one of you in cold blood! Mitch, was it?"
Shane stepped back calmly. "I'm trying to keep these people safe. If I wanted him dead, and if I was an alien, I'm sure I could have done it without anyone finding out. Just as, if you're an alien, I will kill you as brutally and as publicly as possible, as I killed him, and the aliens will know without a shadow of a doubt that we humans are not to be trifled with." Shane glared and his voice darkened. "I hope you are an alien, I hope he was your brother, and I wish you could've heard him scream and beg as I killed him."
Lee turned to the pale faces around him with wild eyes. "He's a lunatic! This is insanity! Kill him before he corrupts you with his madness!"
Andy, pale with a cold sweat, nodded. "Shoot him, Brandon. That's psycho-blabber as I've ever heard it."
Brandon paused, still glaring at Shane. "It's only psycho-blabber if Lee isn't and Mitch wasn't an alien. But if he is and he was, I like my chances with Shane."
Brandon lowered his gun and continued. "This is war–it's us against them. And if the professor is an alien, it seems obvious to me that he's fighting for the wrong side."
"He's killed one of you for sure. He may have killed four of you," Lee said.
Shane shook his head. "If you're such an alien hunter, how is it that you're so certain that Mitch wasn't an alien?" he asked. "Why are you so determined to out me as a killer instead of acknowledging the fact that I wasn't even the one who condemned Mitch as an alien in the first place? In other words, how are you so certain of yourself in such uncertain times?" Shane glanced at the others. "I can't be the only one who finds that suspicious."
Brandon nodded and walked across the room to stand next to Pat, facing the group by the door. "You're right," he said. "I trusted Lee too quickly. I don't trust you either, but I get the feeling that if you kill me, it'll be because you think I'm an alien, and not because I'm human."
"That's the hand we've been dealt," Shane said, somehow reassuringly. "So siding with Lee keeps you safe if you are one. If you aren't an alien, I've proven through my actions that y
ou have nothing to fear from me."
"None of us are aliens but you!" Lee said, looking at the faces still with him for support, "and if you're the only alien here–anyone who trusts you is already dead."
Andy Perkins remained with Lee as did Stanley Lang and Bernard Scott. Jack Evans remained with his wife on the other side of the room along with Brandon Holt.
Jack glared across the room at his friend Andy wringing his hands, his poker buddy Bernard scratching his beard, and at Stanley, who was just a nice person. Jack looked at them and saw nothing but strangers–no one but people who glared back across the room, frightened to murderous intent.
As opposed to how they were before–every man for himself–they were now divided, and as Andy and the newcomer Lee led their party from Thomas's house, Jack wondered whether taking sides meant him safer, or brought him that much closer to his own untimely death.
Chapter 11
Summers placed his friend into the backseat and drove to the nearest hospital. The blood from Penelope's wound drenched the black bandage even blacker, and it spread into the darkness of the seats, into deep shadows, seeming to Summers as it wasn't Penelope's blood but his soul draining from his body and down through the floor of the car. His friend blinked once as his face paled by the second, lacking the strength to shift his head from its uncomfortable, awkward tilt.
"Stay with me, brother," Summers said through clenched teeth as he swerved and skidded down an empty midnight road through stops and red lights.
Tires screeched as they turned a corner to the emergency room, and Summers shifted to park but left the key in the ignition as he ran around to the passenger seat, dragged Penelope out with adrenaline-fueled strength and carried him past the automatic glass doors, into the ER's triage waiting room, and left his friend bleeding on white glossy floors. The nurse behind the large blue desk looked at him, shocked as he shrugged an apology and bailed, just as the security guard stood from his stool.
He dove back into the car, slammed on the gas, and with a roar of the engine, fled the scene, panicking as fear and guilt corrupted him. He reached back and grabbed the folder–the reason why his friend lay dying on that hospital floor and a second man lay dead in his office.
The Harbinger Break Page 18
