She booked a flight for Savannah, which seemed to be the hub of the unrest she'd read about. Walking back into her bedroom to pack her bags once again, she realized that this time, she might not return to her estate in the hills, and for the first time she felt okay with that. The house was just another ploy towards an act, a persona that seemed strong. In reality, she hated the portraits of those naked bodies on her walls.
Chapter 14
The first question Ron Howard had asked was which party would they campaign with? The Radicalists or the Diplomatists?
The Radicalists, founded by Morgan Scott, believed above all else that the aliens intended to attack the planet, and strongly promoted advancing space weaponry for the imminent war. The Diplomatists, the love child of the floundering Democratic and Republican parties, campaigned technological advancement in regard to peaceful coexistence, teaching about God, and arguing that war would just lead to the destruction of both civilizations–that advancing weaponry is just a waste of resources. Regardless of technological advances, they argued, humanity couldn't possibly match their technology. But humanity could bring them God.
Ron's campaign manager and fellow psychic, John Higgins, convinced him that neither of those parties properly conveyed their message. It wasn't about planning a war or mitigating for peace.
So John Higgins invented the Purge, the party that would, in no uncertain terms, support that humanity is not only already under attack but is under imminent risk of annihilation, and that the only option for survival was not war or diplomacy–but unbridled fury. To portray humanity as an entity that would writhe and claw and slash vigorously, effectively, and uncompromisingly to save itself–a picture of a species not worth the casualties of attacking.
First they needed money, which was easy enough to obtain in a town that already supported their party long before it was called the Purge. In his first public forum as a Purgist, Ron told his paranoid, angry followers of their plan–that he would run for Congressman and spread word of the aliens’ transgressions. But their campaign needed money, something that their town, once informed and conjoined under the roof of the Purge, eagerly provided.
"We just need our voices heard," Ron preached. "We can save our world and expel those foul beasts–one dollar at a time."
The multi-millionaire businessman Harlan Wilks provided them with their first million dollar donation, and from there the campaign grew quickly. A week later, Ron brought his official papers to city counsel to qualify as an official candidate in the coming election.
Having confirmed his name's appearance on the ballot, their next step was spreading the word. John Higgins printed out hundreds of "Ron Howard for Congress" signs, purchased a few billboards, and with John and Theron Thurston's help, Ron covered the town in his name.
In a few day's time there wasn't an intersection within thirty miles that didn't have a "Ron Howard for Congress" sign planted firmly in the soil.
They set up an office about a mile from the Quarter Moon Inn, the place which Ron lovingly referred to as "where it all began–where humanity began to fight back."
John hired a party of about eight others to help organize their campaign and to keep track of their competitor's movements. There was just one other running for congress: the incumbent, Diplomatist Wilson Carter.
Wilson Carter was generally disliked by all but the Christian community–as his constant raise in taxes to send a missionary convoy to Europa as ordained by Pope John Paul II was met with disdain by others, primarily because of the church's stubbornness against uniting their efforts with NASA.
The tax exempt nature of the church, combined with the current Congressman's inclination to grant and vote for taxpayer money to fund E.A.S.T. (Evangelist Aeronautics and Space Technology), disgruntled undecided voters.
So the rise of Ron Howard and his campaign for statewide reformations concerning human psyche and the possible alien subterfuge made undecided voters paranoid enough to garner their allegiance.
Within the week, John Higgins had arranged for Ron Howard's first city-wide public debate with incumbent Wilson Carter, and the team was organizing and preparing Ron every day between public meetings.
"And if they ask, 'what makes you think the aliens are already here?' what do you respond?" John asked as Ron straightened his tie in a mirror before a public forum, smiling at his reflection, thinking that there were a lot of things that could go wrong in the design of a human face, but his contained none of them.
"First I'll respond with the question, 'what makes you think they're not?' then continue with, 'every species, from humans to beasts, in some way utilizes espionage techniques. The tiger lurks invisible in tall grass when stalking the antelope. The sand shark buries itself and waits for an unsuspecting passerby. Humans, for thousands of years, have utilized spies. And it's what we would do to the Europans, had we the technology. Why wouldn't they be spying on us?"
"But what makes you think that the best way for them to spy is to somehow pose as humans?" John asked.
"We use spies in the same manner, posing as citizens of other countries. If the aliens have the technology, why wouldn't they? It's what we would do, and they're likely far smarter than we are."
"So how would we expel them?"
"Show them that we're not to be trifled with. They have the whole galaxy before them. Portraying humanity as an enemy willing to fight hand tooth and claw to save itself–that the cost of enslaving or killing us would be too steep a price–may convince them that Earth isn't worth it."
"Good," John said, nodding grimly. "We may save humanity yet."
Ron turned from the mirror to face John. "How do I look?"
John approached from his chair and fixed Ron's tie and collar. "Professional," he said. "The fate of humanity rests upon your shoulders, but I wouldn't trust it with any other."
Ron clasped his campaign manager on the shoulder. "We're doing a great thing, John Higgins."
John nodded and left the room.
As soon as John left, Ron clasped his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut as another headache began to form.
He opened his eyes and looked at his reflection again, watching a bead of blood drip from his ear.
◊ ◊ ◊
Sitting in a hotel room just outside of Savannah, Penelope strummed random chords on his guitar as Summers relaxed in front of the television, hoping to see Shane again, uncertain of the context in which he'd first seen him.
He'd been browsing through the television stations, and when he landed on the story about Shane and called Paige in to confirm his spotting, the segment had ended, but Summers had learned enough to know that he was somehow involved with the 1st District of Georgia congressional election.
But now he saw him again. Being in the city where the campaign originated certainly helped.
In just a week, the news had stated, Ron Howard and Congressman Wilson Carter would hold their first formal, publicly televised debate.
And as they showed B-roll of Ron Howard meeting with Savannah citizens, Summers saw Shane standing nearby, in a suit, clearly someone of importance in Ron Howard's campaign. He yelled out to Penelope, "Come check this out," and as Penelope scampered over Summers pointed. "There–with the guy running for Congress."
"That's him?"
"Without a doubt. His hair's been trimmed but aside from that he looks exactly as he did when I saw photos of him last, at the station."
"So he's here."
Summers nodded.
Penelope shook his head. "I don't understand. Why would he reveal himself?"
"Because he doesn't care about his safety," Summers replied. "In fact, I'm certain that he fully intends to die for this cause of his. We have to stop him before he can. Harrison Alcove called off the APB on him, but I'm unsure of whether cops not looking for him anymore helps or hurts us."
"Is it worth getting caught, a lifetime in jail, likely castrated–just to take him out?" Penelope asked.
Summers shook h
is head. "I'm not sure. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Let's focus on forming a plan so it doesn't come to that."
Turning his attention back to the news, Summers learned of the new political party, called Purgist, and their belief that humanity may already be under an alien invasion but with the proper steps the invaders may be expelled.
It sounded exactly like Shane.
Summers knew that if Ron Howard won this election with Pat Shane at his side, that not only the city, but eventually the nation would fall into complete disarray. Neighbors would be paranoid of neighbors. Random murders would be committed guised as defense against alien spies. Chaos.
"But what if he's right?" Penelope asked. "What if the aliens are actually here, spying on us. His logic, although seeming delusionally paranoid, can't really be proven false."
"Then that's what it is. But neighbors and citizens killing each other, compromising a peacefully coexisting society would jeopardize humanity's future regardless of whether or not we've expelled the aliens," Summers said. He sighed, trying to fill his words with conviction he wished he felt stronger. "If men begin killing one another, what remains after the bloodshed wouldn't be humanity."
Penelope nodded but didn't respond.
Summers had hoped that his friend would reassure his convictions, and Penelope's lack of affirmation made Summers nervous.
The two men awoke early the next morning and finished the drive to Savannah, barely speaking. Summers knew that Penelope was working through an obvious conflict, and hoped that the logical, rational side would win.
"Humanity's survived this long. We'll find a way to continue surviving without compromising it," Summers said.
"You're right, of course," Penelope replied without a hint of conviction.
Summers wanted to argue and tell him how Shane's logic was flawed–but bringing up an argument where he'd be pinning his friend on the other end might inadvertently keep him there.
They arrived, driving past picketer after picketer with signs ranging from "The Government is Poisoning Us" to "The End is Nigh", and found the center of the unrest to be at the Quarter Moon Inn.
Penelope suggested they check in there, "To remain close to the action," and Summers obliged.
A few minutes later they parked and checked into a room.
Apparently, unrest stemmed from the notion that the last front desk clerk may have been an alien, and they discovered a recent, unreported murder may have been committed, but that only convinced Penelope further that this was where they could find out what they needed to know.
Finally in Savannah, and time was running out. Summers had to stop Shane before the public debate, but he wondered if it would even be enough, or if Shane had already won.
◊ ◊ ◊
Sam angrily paced back and forth in the Purgists’ office. He was humanity's savior, not Pat. He was the one who discovered the truth about the food, not Pat. He was the one who was probably still being hunted for exposing that fact, not Pat. He should be Ron's campaign manager. Fuck Pat.
And as desperately wanted him dead, for not only his sins, but what he would turn the country into with his newfound power, Sam couldn't do it. Because as long as Pat was in the spotlight, Sam was safe.
He still worried from time to time about dying like Mayor Farbman. But Sam knew that if anyone ever came to kill him, Pat would protect him in a heartbeat. Which made it feel that much worse that he intended to kill Pat.
Sam hadn't expected to be in the spotlight. He'd intended on subtly spreading the news of the food as Theron Thurston, then disappearing, killing Pat once the truth spread. But now this.
Sam was incredibly easy to locate, and only Pat could protect him.
He stopped pacing and looked across the room at Pat, who was typing quickly on a computer, likely emailing local venues, finding nearby locations to rally support for Ron.
Pat gave Sam a small grin, then returned to typing.
Sam could kill Pat right now.
Except he couldn't. As badly as he wanted Pat dead, he needed him.
So Sam continued pacing.
He had an idea. What if he could publicly kill Pat–on national television even, and claim Pat was compromised? Claim that the aliens had somehow replaced him?
If he could do that, he would be a hero immediately. And the government wouldn't dare assassinate a hero who had prevented an alien compromise.
That was what he'd do, Sam decided. During the debate next week, he'd claim Pat intended to kill Ron, then kill him. It was perfect. Plus, he had Pat's trust, an asset more valuable than gold.
◊ ◊ ◊
Claire's plane landed in Savannah. She rented a taxi and booked an expensive room at a resort near the airport. She knew she might die, and if that was the case, at least she'd spend her remaining days in comfort.
She hadn't an idea where to start, but that confusion quickly sorted itself out once she'd turned on the television and heard about the debate. She'd recognized Patches immediately, close to a congressional candidate.
The influence he'd begun to spread in this city was obvious–from the shots of picketers to the massive crowds their party attracted at each public meeting.
She learned of the first televised debate taking place in a couple days, and with a phone call managed to purchase a ticket to the event.
She needed to revise her strategy. Out of the public eye, killing him would've been simple. But now that he had become a public figure, killing him would prove far more complicated.
So she went downstairs to the resort's pool, bought herself a martini, and began to brainstorm.
Part 3
Abashed the Devil Stood
Chapter 15
The first publicly televised debate was the following day, in exactly twenty four hours, and Ron Howard couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so apprehensive.
It wasn't the public speaking or the information he worried about–he felt confident in what he knew and what he believed. They had checked and rechecked their facts, and knew almost verbatim Wilson Clark's key points, possible rebuttals to theirs, and he was certain that the actual debate wouldn't be a problem. Estimates already showed that they were up seventy-three percent in the polls.
So what caused the feeling he felt now? He couldn't put a finger on it, but as a psychic he knew that the feeling was not to be put aside lightly.
Unfortunately, considering how vulnerable publicly he would be in a matter of hours, there wasn't much he could do. Guards constantly surrounded him and the meeting, which was to be held at Chibiney Hall, would be protected as well with metal detectors and scanners to ensure that nobody could bring inside weapons.
But he wasn't worried about people. If the aliens wanted him dead, he knew that there was nothing he could do about it, and that scared the confidence right out of him.
His enemy was unstoppable, and in his opinion his death seemed almost necessary to spur his movement. But he didn't want to die–why did it seem like he had to die to save humanity?
His only hope remained in the simple fact that his death would spur humanity to a restless frenzy, which hopefully the Europans–Rhaokins–whatever–would want to avoid.
If he lived, he thought his movement wouldn't be taken seriously enough, and if he died it would, but he'd be dead. And again, death was an unfavorable outcome.
He sat in front of the television in his office and rubbed his forehead as he watched the report on the death of the founder and principal of GenDec, and couldn't help but think that his campaign, the deaths at Sherwood Hills, and now the GenDec murder weren't somehow entwining around him, the hull of his Titanic.
And Theron Thurston's recording, proof of drugged food, was undeniable proof that society had been compromised by aliens. It all revolved around him and his campaign–which felt more like a revolution, like a final stand. If his campaign failed there was no coming back, humanity would be doomed. But even if his campaign was successful, it didn't necessarily secu
re humanity's future. He hated the Rhaokins for putting him in this position, for threatening not only his country, but his planet.
A knock resounded on his office door, a quick rattling, and he recognized it at once as John Higgins. "Come in," Ron said, quickly checking his ears for blood, and John opened the door and strode in, more cheerful than Ron recalled seeing him of late.
He watched silently as his campaign manager took a seat beside him, and realized he didn't know John nearly as well as it felt like he did. That man was nothing but a familiar stranger–but then again in this day and age, who wasn't?
"Less than twenty-four hours now," John said, tossing Ron the day's paper. Ron opened it. The headline was the murder at GenDec, and there was a follow-up story on the Sherwood Hills deaths, but news of the first publicly televised debate between himself and Congressman Wilson Carter took up at least a fourth of the page.
The population of Savannah had never been so involved in politics, and Ron knew it was solely due to the awareness (occasionally referred to as paranoia) he brought to the city. He was news, and he couldn't help but wonder what the headline would read two days from now. He hoped it wouldn't tell the tragic tale of his death.
Although, looking at John, an aching suspicion arose from his gut that John might realize what his death would mean to the cause. Ron grew even more fearful that he wouldn't survive tomorrow's debate. John had killed before, he'd seen the aftermath with his own eyes. How could he be certain that John wouldn't kill again? How had he been so blindly trusting of John in the first place? Because he acted purely on psychic instinct instead of plain, in-your-face logic?
No, he had to calm down. This was just groundless paranoia. Why would the aliens choose to reveal themselves now? How could John even kill him without likely dying himself? It didn't make sense, or he couldn't make sense of it. He was virtually untouchable. Even if an alien tried to murder him, his campaign employed so many bodyguards that they'd likely not only take the bullet, but then find and kill the would-be-assassin as well. Ron took a deep breath. No, he thought, he had nothing to worry about–nothing at all.
The Harbinger Break Page 24
