The Harbinger Break

by Adams, Zachary

  It was, of course, impossible to determine how Shane would have turned out if not for GenDec, but considering the lunatic's predisposition to heroics, Summers was certain that he would've done great things for humanity.

  Shane wasn't a bad guy, he was just drastically warped. The situation reminded Summers of an episode of his favorite childhood superhero, Harbinger. The series was especially dark, and in one issue the main villain captured Harbinger and put hallucinogenic eye drops into the hero's eyes.

  Harbinger then escaped, or so he'd thought, and fought off the villain's henchmen, brutally killing most of them, just to find out as the drug wore off that he hadn't killed the villain's henchmen, he'd killed police officers who'd stormed the villain's base solely to rescue him.

  The series was cancelled soon afterward, but the topic of subjective heroics had since stuck with Summers, and he often found himself considering the motives of those whom were considered evil, and in his experience most criminals were the heroes of their own stories.

  And that always frightened him.

  It wasn't until a week later, during which Summers conducted a constant yet fruitless search for Shane, that he finally found him. It came as a complete shock as he watched the news one day, in such an unexpected manner that he'd called Paige into the room to confirm what he saw–and there was no mistaking it.

  There, on the television, was Shane, and according to the report, he was hiding in plain sight in a city just four hours north called Savannah.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  It happened in slow motion, as Sam was in such an auto-pilot state of mind while driving, caught up in his thoughts about Pat Shane and all the different ways that he could go about killing him, that he'd been ignoring the rolling green fields of the scenic byway, and it wasn't until he saw a black Camaro approaching that subtle pangs in the back of his mind sparked his subconscious, screaming him awake.

  Both cars passed the other at fifty miles an hour in opposite directions–and although in reality the moment lasted no longer than a second–it was unmistakable that in that car, driving in the opposite direction was none other than the man Sam sought to murder.

  As he locked eyes with his foe their cars seemed to slow to a near stop, blurs of trees stood still in the background of his gaze, and Pat Shane locked eyes with him, wearing an expression of surprised wonder.

  And as the moment ended and the cars and the world resumed its normal frame rate. Sam found himself shocked, panicked, and out of breath–fearing the unknowable worst.

  He had to turn around. Not obviously, but he'd found his mark–and the fantasy of an intended murder dissolved to reality, causing a shield of personal skepticism to waiver and falter like a papier-mâché cloak. Now it was time to know–not just think–that he could not only plan but go through with murder.

  It had to be done–Pat Shane had to die and he was the only one who could stop him–the only one who realized the evil that Pat himself couldn't realize. Killing Pat and saving the world were almost synonymous, and the aliens and the food could be dealt with once the fate of humanity was removed from Pat's cold dead grasp.

  By the time he turned around and began heading north back to Savannah, he estimated that he was approximately three miles behind Shane. He entered the depths of his mind once again, plotting for as many hypothetical scenarios as he could come up with, wondering if he should even do it.

  He was so caught up in his own mind that when honking erupted behind him, and he checked his rear view mirror and saw Pat tailing him and swerving erratically, motioning for him to pull over, his veins turned to ice and then emptied at the realization that he'd been outsmarted by his nemesis once again–that Pat must've pulled over and waited for Sam to drive past.

  But as he pulled over he calmed himself. To Pat, the two of them were still allies–Pat had no idea of Sam's true intentions. He faltered due to a distracted mind, that's all, and once he focused surely he could keep up with Pat.

  The Camaro pulled over directly behind him and Pat stepped out of his car. Sam parked his car and did the same.

  As they approached, Sam assessed Pat's posture and demeanor and, unless Pat was acting, Sam felt somewhat secure that he wasn't in any inherent danger at that moment. Not to mention the huge bruise on Pat's arm. The manner in which he carried his arm gave Sam the impression that Pat couldn't attack him even if he'd wanted to.

  "You investigated the BixPlus?" Pat asked. Sam noted he looked darker, paler, and for some reason he cringed with every step. Pat's damp skin gave him a sickly glow that Sam was all too familiar with. It was the look of a mind split, and Sam had experienced that same weakness not too long ago as he withdrew from the astatine.

  "Yes. You were right."

  Pat walked over to Sam's passenger door and hopped in. "Let's go. Tell me on the road."

  Sam glanced at the Camaro. "What about your car?"

  "It's not mine. I'll explain on the road," Pat said, and sighed heavily. He seemed to be in chronic pain.

  Sam shrugged and stepped back into the car, surprised at the ease in which he felt himself resume his false role as Pat's ally. The man looked frail and sickly, the opposite of a psychotic killer.

  "So what did you find out?" Pat asked as Sam merged back onto the road.

  "There are drugs in the food. Listen to this–" Sam said, then took out his phone and played the recording. Pat listened with a furrowed brow, and didn't speak for a few minutes after it'd finished playing.

  "What do you make of it?" Pat asked.

  Sam felt oddly flattered that Pat cared about his opinion. "Confirms the drugs, but they were either introduced by irrational humans or malicious aliens. We can't know for sure."

  Pat nodded.

  "So?" Sam asked.

  Pat didn't respond, and an uncomfortable silence filled the car.

  For about two minutes Sam drove while Pat sat in silence. He considered turning on the radio, but before he could, Pat finally spoke.

  "I've killed a lot of innocent people," he said. "Hopefully one of them was an alien. I wish I could know."

  Sam's mind screamed 'psycho!' but his jaw remained clamped. Finally he responded. "What do you mean?"

  Pat squeezed his eyes shut. "If what you've discovered is true, it doesn't make any logical sense that the aliens would be posing as nameless nobodies when they've already compromised society at the top," he said. He shook his head violently. "I'm just trying to save the planet."

  "We still can," Sam said. He cringed inwardly. Sympathy for the devil.

  Pat nodded and closed his eyes. "I'm not crazy."

  "I know," Sam said.

  They drove in silence for a while. Sam could tell Pat was fighting countless internal demons.

  Finally Sam broke the silence. "Savannah is in an uproar since we last were there. Word spread quickly through the town about the poisoned food, and it's spreading more and more each passing day."

  Pat nodded, and Sam fell back to silence.

  It wasn't until they entered Savannah and drove through its crowded streets that Pat finally spoke, saying only, "We can use this."

  Sam looked around at the town. "How?"

  Pat ignored his question, instead asking, "Do you know who's in charge?"

  "From what I learned, I think Ron Howard."

  "Take me to him."

  Sam nodded and proceeded to return to the Quarter Moon Inn.

  They exited the car and entered the hotel. The lobby was empty, devoid of any oddly dressed psychics and flamboyant characters, but the apathetic front desk clerk remained, and she eyed them as they approached.

  Sam put his hands on the counter. "Excuse me?"

  The clerk didn't respond, instead, she stared at him oddly. He continued, "do you perchance know where Ron the psychic is?"

  "No."

  "Do you know any of his common hangouts or anything like that?"

  "No."

  "Okay," Sam said, distraught and offended. He looked at Pat, who seemed u
nconcerned by her demeanor.

  "Thank you for your time," Sam continued.

  Suddenly, Pat spoke. "She's lying."

  The woman narrowed her brow. "What did you say?"

  Pat turned to her. "You're lying. You know where they are. I saw Ron Howard's car in the parking lot.

  "No you didn't, and even if you did–I don't give a shit."

  Pat approached the counter, brow narrowed. "Why would you lie to us?"

  She leaned in and looked up at Pat, locking their eyes. "Leave before I call the cops."

  "Is it because we're human?"

  She paused for a second, confused, before responding. "Fuck off."

  Sam grinned. He realized she must've thought he asked that as an insult, directed at her hideous appearance.

  Pat turned his look of anger to one of compassion. "I don't understand–we haven't wronged you in any way. Help me understand so I don't have to kill you."

  Her eyes widened. Then, quicker than seemed possible, there was a gun on the counter, and her finger straddling the trigger. "Get out," she said.

  Sam blinked. Without warning, without a hint or a signal or even subtle twitch, Pat had his knife drawn, his right hand grasping and pulling the woman's gun arm over the counter past both of them, and his left hand with the knife up against her throat.

  "Sam, switch on the safety of her gun and take it from her. If she fires it I'm going to slice her throat open."

  Her eyes widened even further. Sam gently took her hand and the gun from it.

  Once he had the gun, Pat glared at the clerk. "We were being very polite. Why were you lying?"

  "Fuck off. You better be prepared to use that knife."

  Sam cringed. She had no idea who she was dealing with. He was sure that tough act worked on probably any other client, but she drastically underestimated his companion.

  Pat continued, ignoring her. "Is it because we're human? We haven't wronged you in any way–we've been nothing but polite."

  "What? 'Because you're human' ? Are you fucking crazy?"

  Pat nodded. "Kind of. And now you might be an alien. And I'm sort of OCD in the fact that I can't let anyone live who I think might possibly be an alien. I'm sorry."

  Her eyes flashed and drained as he instantly dug his knife deep into her throat, unfortunately not quicker than the deathly fear in her eyes with the realization that she was dead.

  Blood poured from her neck and onto Pat's outstretched hand. She collapsed, and he shoved her behind the counter and left her to bleed out her remaining seconds alive on the floor as Sam stood by and watched, horrified. Now more than ever he knew that Pat Shane had to die.

  Pat walked to the bathroom, likely to wash the woman's blood from his hand.

  Sam walked into the lobby area and sat down. He grew increasingly overwhelmed by the millisecond, as an unbearable weight threatened to crush him.

  This moment–so close. He held a gun in his hand. He could shoot Pat as he walked out of the bathroom. It'd be so simple except for the fact that it was in the middle of the day at an inn where a woman lay dead on the floor. But he'd have to do it, this was his chance–it was perfect.

  He walked over to the bathroom, considered entering it but didn't like the odds of being that close to Pat–he might miss, and if he did Pat would instantly close the distance between them and kill him. It came down to experience and in that case Pat clearly had the upper hand.

  His best bet was to wait outside, with the gun drawn inconspicuously at his side, at such an angle that he could shoot before Pat even noticed it. Lining himself up in front of the doorway, he held the gun pointed at the door by his hip and began to wait.

  And wait. And as time passed and the sink kept running Sam grew paranoid that Pat had caught on to his plan and currently plotted a counter attack from inside. He had half a mind to enter the bathroom just to check up on him, gun hidden.

  But as his tension hit its peak the front door bells chimed and in walked Ron and a few other psychics just as Sam hid his gun.

  "Theron Thurston, by the gods–you're back!"

  Sam nodded. "Ron Howard."

  He looked at the counter and his eyes widened. "Is that–is that blood?"

  "It is. John Higgins just returned here with a powerful vibration, which was confirmed when we arrived."

  Pat walked out at that moment and continued the conversation in stride.

  "Yes, I'm sorry I couldn't have come sooner, but I'm afraid that this clerk showed unquestionable proof of alien behavior. I just wonder how much she had learned from you before my reading was confirmed."

  "What? Are you certain, John Higgins?"

  "Absolutely. There were countless, obvious signs–I'm shocked you didn't realize them sooner, Ron Howard."

  "I've had my suspicions, but I'm afraid I must've grown careless in these trying times. Have you seen how our movement has grown? How the eyes of awareness are opening across the state as we speak?"

  Pat nodded. "I've noticed. But it's not enough, we need to do more. Ron, I've come to convince you to run for Congressman of the 1st District of Georgia–"

  At this Sam's eyes bulged–where had that come from?

  "–to protect this state and soon this country from the inevitable alien invasion on the horizon." Pat continued.

  Ron twisted his beard. "Congressman, you say?"

  "I'm aware you've spread our message across this city. But it's not enough. I will be your campaign manager along with Theron here. Together, we can open more ears to our cause than we could possibly alone."

  Ron grinned as Pat spoke.

  "Yes," Ron said. "Yes, this is the movement we've been waiting for, John Higgins. With you as my campaign manager word will spread, and not only will people be safe, but psychics as protectors of humanity will be known once more. No longer shall our kind be hidden in the shadows of humanity. They shall know their saviors, and finally whom to direct their thanks and respect."

  Sam's stomach dropped. The last thing he wanted was spotlight. What if the question of his true heritage came into play?

  Pat held out a hand, and Ron clasped it. "So it's settled then," Pat said. "Campaign with me–with us, Ron Howard, and together we will save humanity."

  Ron nodded and grinned. "I will."

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Claire heard about the explosion at Sherwood Hills and knew Lee was dead. A tsunami of guilt swept her, drenching her, and a cold sweat grew colder with the hope that he had at least taken out Pat as well. But she knew he hadn't, and her cold sweat chilled her as she tossed fitfully in bed.

  She'd sent a man to his death. How had she not, until this moment, considered the repercussions of her actions? How had she not considered the morality of sending a man to his death? How had she been so oblivious and so ignorant? It had almost seemed like a game up until now. But the fact of the matter was that Lee was dead and it was her fault–end of story.

  She'd known he'd die, but she'd never stopped to fully comprehend what that meant. Never having had an encounter with death, she somehow hadn't considered it to be something that could affect her personally. Death happened to people on television, death happened to family members. She had no family, and she'd never had a conversation with anyone who wasn't still alive, and now–the Sherwood Hills incident coinciding almost exactly with the death of the Principal of GenDec–it was unthinkable. It was frightening. Her actions had consequences. Bad things could happen to people she knew. It wasn't just a game, her life, real life. It wasn't just a fairytale.

  She'd killed an innocent man for reasons nauseatingly selfish.

  "Selfish." Now that was a word of which she understood the definition, but not what it meant. It felt as if she'd been running on auto-pilot up until this moment, in her bed, underneath her damp restraining comforter, and she kicked it off without thinking–realizing every action of hers was no more than just a calculated response to external stimuli, no different than a computer–watching life, never living.

 
She hopped out of bed. The clock flashed two-thirty in the morning. Moving a wisp of hair from her eyes, she turned from her bed and left her bedroom, walked across her living room and into the kitchen. Pouring a cup of coffee, she sat down at the bar, and for the first time–well, feeling like the first time at least–she organized her thoughts.

  First of all, why did she want to kill Patches Shane? Of course he'd gotten the upper hand last time they met, but it had to be more than that. He'd somehow out-manipulated her, and something about that scared her.

  She looked back on what she'd accomplished in her life thanks almost solely to her ability to get people to want what she wanted. She had a high paying job, men who jumped at her beck and call, millionaire clients calling her for meetings, and recently she'd sent a man to his death. But she had no malicious world-at-stake plans in mind. Patches, on the other hand… he had her ability, but he was even better. And he was insane. He could do a lot of bad with that. A lot of people could die.

  It seemed like such an odd way of describing just a character trait. Manipulative not as a characteristic but as a power. Almost like mind-control, but far more subtle. And she had it, and she recognized it in Patches. He didn't have to die solely because he out manipulated her–he had to die because with his "power" he could–and from what she'd seen, would–cause the deaths of hundreds, if not thousands.

  She almost laughed at how ridiculous it sounded in her head, and part of her screamed internally that manipulation wasn't a super power. But every time that thought bubbled up she popped it with the thought of Lee, dead, for no reason but selfish personal gain.

  She walked to her computer to begin research. Word of unrest from the south–Florida, Georgia, and some South Carolina–had spread subtly. She found articles of public discord, suspiciously lacking details of cause, just factual reiterations of what. But it was enough to know that Patches had to be involved somehow.

  Time for her to get her hands dirty, she thought. If anyone stood a chance against him, it was her, and he had to be stopped before things got too far, too out of hand.