He strolled down the sidewalk in his white shirt and tie, looking at all the buildings, and an image of them burning down sprouted suddenly in his mind. If what he planned was successful, and the party grew that much stronger, there would certainly be chaos, but if the aliens were hiding on Earth as Pat thought, there was no doubt in his mind that they'd be expelled.
He stopped at a diner, and on a whim stepped inside. It was one of those establishments that had pictures of random patrons and owners on the wall, which had always bothered him, although he could never pinpoint why.
He ordered a sandwich to-go, and the woman snatched his money with a greedy smile. He sat down at the bar and had a glass of water while he waited, thinking that Pat would've found that woman odd. He decided that he'd go to Chibiney Hall once he'd gotten his sandwich and eat it there. He could claim to be helping out if asked. The venue was so large that he could easily hide out in one of the building's many rooms.
Twenty minutes later he received his sandwich, and with a thanks he left the diner, noting as he walked outside that the sun had fully begun its westward descent.
He walked towards Chibiney Hall and looked at his watch. The debate would start in a little over three hours–Ron would begin heading over soon. Sam had done his job–now it was time to prepare for his real job as humanity's savior.
The Hall came into sight a few blocks away.
It took up almost a full block on its own. There were steps leading up to the front door, a flagpole, likely the tallest in the city, proudly waving an American flag, and the building itself seemed to be at least five stories high. The roof was curved like a white ceramic salad bowl. Sam approached and felt the familiar apprehension build once again. He'd never killed anyone before, what if he couldn't do it?
No, he resolved, the fate of humanity had to be on his shoulders, he had to redeem himself. He could do it, he had to.
He nodded to a worker he recognized and entered the building. He walked through a deserted hallway around the main arena that led backstage and found a deserted room.
So this was it. Sitting on a plastic chair, he withdrew his laptop. The debate was soon, and he had to be absolutely sure of everything. His life literally depended on it.
◊ ◊ ◊
Lee lurked in the parking lot of Chibiney Hall, waiting for an unsuspecting, weak target from whom he could steal a ticket and kill if he must.
Every movement caused excruciating pain, and the inside of his sweatshirt was caked in blood that had drenched through the countless bandages he'd wrapped himself in. He could feel septic blood pulsing through his veins, and knew he had hours until he finally collapsed. Grabbing another penicillin, he kept his eyes peeled as he dry swallowed.
A black car pulled past Lee and into an alley, where it parked. A tall, stocky man exited, wearing a black suit. Lee would have ignored him, but his authoritative persona held Lee's attention. The alley was out of the public eye and was restricted parking.
The man had his attention elsewhere, so Lee crept closer. Yes, he could see it, the man was a federal agent. Which would be perfect, better then Lee had originally planned. If he could take out the agent he could steal his gun, which likely had working bullets, and his badge, so he could enter the Hall armed with ease.
The man withdrew a cellphone from his pocket and placed a cup of coffee on the roof of his car. He looked down and began to dial.
Lee recognized his chance.
Sprinting forward, quietly, Lee gripped tightly the barrel of his gun. Using his momentum, he swiftly smashed the hilt into the back of the agent's head as hard as he could. The agent cried out and fell, dropping his phone. Lee didn't hesitate, and continued to pound the man's head until a pool of blood soaked the shadowed pavement of the alleyway.
He grabbed keys from the body and unlocked the car. As quickly as he could he took the corpse and dragged it into the back seat, then crawled in after it. He searched the jacket, withdrew the agent's badge and opened it.
The man Lee just killed, he discovered, was Harrison Alcove, and he'd been an FBE field agent. Lee checked his pants, pulled out his wallet, then unhooked his belt and grabbed the gun. Because of his mutilated face he wondered if he'd have trouble passing as the agent, but put that thought aside for the moment. He checked inside the wallet and found the agent's ticket.
So he was all set.
After a slight change in disguise, Lee approached Chibiney Hall.
He took a side entrance, one intended for the handicapped, keeping his head bowed. When he was next in line, he took the guard aside and spoke in a whisper.
"I'm undercover. This is a disguise."
He withdrew the agent's badge and flashed it to the guard, handing the guard the ticket as well.
The guard studied his face.
"That disguise is amazing," he said. "You FBE guys don't play around."
"No room in this line of work."
"You even got a smell. Why is this a disguise?"
Lee shook his head, continuing his whisper. "Long story. You'll understand soon. We good?"
The guard eyed him up and down curiously, then nodded.
"We good."
He handed the badge back to Lee, and called the next guest forward.
The hall had two rows of seats and three walking aisles–two on the outside and one in the middle. The podiums were already labeled, the candidates names on each one, so Lee sat on Ron Howard's side, hoping that from this close, not even he could miss Shane when the chance arose. The room was about a fourth filled so far, which happened to be perfect. He took a seat in the front row, at an odd angle, and did so with relatively few curious glances.
◊ ◊ ◊
Penelope casually entered the room an hour before the debate was scheduled to begin, and Summers stopped pacing as he did so, fuming, but also scared. Summers had been hoping that his friend hadn't gone to the Purgists to out their plan, to tell the party that Summers planned to murder their campaign manager. The fact that he fully intended on dying today didn't help.
So he'd been pacing, hoping for his friend to come back and negate his fear, possibly help him figure a way out of this situation.
"What's going on?" Summers asked.
"Out doing research."
"The debate starts in an hour, we need to leave now. Something's come up–I need your help."
Earlier during his pacing session, Summers had decided to act like he held no suspicion towards his friend, maybe to guilt Penelope out of betraying him, maybe to at least guilt him into coming clean.
Penelope sat down on the bed, reached over and grabbed his bag. "I don't think you're on the right side this time, brother."
So, it was the latter.
This was actually happening. Summers responded slowly, choosing carefully his words. "What do you mean?"
"The aliens, man. They might be here. There's no evidence supporting otherwise. Isn't it strange that after almost forty years they haven't tried contacting us, haven't responded to us, nothing?"
Summers nodded sympathetically. "I agree it's strange. But you know what Shane proposes to do. People will be killing each other. Cities will plummet. It will be nothing short of anarchy."
Penelope sighed. "Then that's what it is. We shouldn't just be sitting around, waiting to die."
"What makes you think they even want us dead?"
"What makes you think they don't?"
"They haven't attacked us," Summers said, cracking a nervous smile.
Penelope stood, excited. "You don't know that! Explain the close proximity, explain their lack of response, explain the drugged food! You can't!"
Summers shrugged. "So that means we have to kill each other?"
"Innocent people may not die," Penelope said, pacing. "They're proposing a simple screening, and studies of the human brain to see if anomalies can be spotted in compromised people. And don't you think that anyone opting not to get screened is suspicious anyway? What have they got to hide?"
Summers cleared his throat. " 'Those willing to sacrifice a little liberty for a little security will deserve neither and lose both.' Ben Franklin said that. Sound familiar?"
Penelope tossed up his hands. "It's a simple screening! People have to get screened before they can drive a car in this country."
"To make sure they can drive a car! I can prove to you easily that people exist who shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car. Can you do the same?"
"So for the person who can't drive–how many lives will be forfeit from it? One? Two? How many lives are risked if the aliens are here now?"
Summers paused–his friend was completely convinced, exactly as he'd feared.
"But you don't–" he began, but Penelope interrupted him, his question having been rhetorical.
"All of them, Chris! All of our lives are at risk, can't you see how much higher the stakes are?"
"In your mind, brother," Summers said sadly.
"The aliens are real," Penelope replied, calming down.
"But the threat isn't."
"The threat is as real as it gets, brother. There are aliens. We don't know whether or not they're peaceful. Assuming that they are is idiotic. But if we assume they're dangerous, assume they're trying to kill us, then we'll be ready, and then, if they are peaceful, let them prove it."
"They've been on Europa for at least forty years, possibly more," Summers said. "Yet we have not confirmed even one death by an alien." He forced a smile. "I'm certain they don't have to sign anything to prove they're not trying to kill us."
"You don't know that. They might have been corrupting humanity for millennia. We don't know anything. That's the point. If we just knew something, all of this paranoia would be gone. But instead, they've driven us to insanity, and our only hope is to expunge them any way we can."
"We haven't even sent an astronaut to them yet," Summers said. "Look, I understand that they might be dangerous, but what I'm saying is that why don't we focus on advancing technologically, traveling to them, meeting them on their own turf. There could be hundreds of reasons why they haven't contacted us yet. We should know for sure before resorting to such drastic measures, don't you think?"
"No! By then it might be too late!" Penelope said, growing excited and closing the distance between himself and Summers. "We have to act now–technology won't just stop progressing. And at least then we'll be safe."
"And millions, possibly billions of innocents will have died."
"But humanity will survive, and that's the point! Who cares if innocents die, they might all be dead in five years or less anyway if we don't act now! And that's worst-case scenario. It's possible that with the Purgists’ plan no innocents die. The screening process could be released and if everyone passes–"
"–and if everyone passes," Summers said, interrupting. "You honestly think that'll be it? Or you think maybe scientists will call the hardware faulty and redesign it again and again until some screened humans show up as compromised, regardless of whether or not they actually are."
"If that's the case, so be it. A few deaths for the sake of the planet. It's a tough decision, I understand that, but it's also the right one."
"And my tough decision right now," Summers replied. "Is to kill Pat Shane. I don't want to, but I have to, for the sake of humanity. And I don't mean humanity just as a species, I mean humanity as an ideal."
"Then it's my tough decision to stop you, brother, from making a terrible mistake."
Penelope stood between Summers and the door.
"I'm not going to fight you, Phil," Summers said, using his friend's real name. Penelope shook his head.
"The friendship card won't hold right now, brother. This is bigger than either of us."
Summers sighed. "Let me go."
Penelope shook his head. "No."
"I'm not going to fight you."
"Then we don't have a problem. But you aren't getting through this door."
"He needs to be stopped, man. I understand you don't see that now, but I promise you–if he gets his way, if his party gets its way, you'll see how wrong you are."
"Than so be it. I'd rather be wrong because the aliens aren't here than be wrong because they are."
Summers shook his head. "Let me through."
"No."
Without warning, Summers charged for the door. Penelope wrapped an arm around him, but was pushed backwards from Summers's momentum. As they crashed against the back wall, Penelope managed to wedge his foot at the bottom of the door and keep it shut. Summers had his hand on the handle and pulled, but to no avail. He began shoving Penelope, who tried shoving back, but Summers had the balance advantage and, slowly, Penelope began to fall back.
They didn't say a word, and Summers pushed, hoping he could run out and away from his friend, and Penelope's foot was about to lift from the wedge, but as he lost his balance, he swung his left fist, connecting harshly with Summers’ cheek. Summers stumbled back and looked up shocked at his friend, but Penelope wore only a blank expression.
Summers charged again, and Penelope met him head on.
So this was what it'd come down to, Summers thought as he mentally prepared himself to fight his friend.
Penelope had the size advantage, but Summers knew he had the upper hand skill wise, and hoped his combat training would suffice.
Penelope shifted his weight, and Summers’ foot slipped and he fell backwards, Penelope landing on top of him.
Summers raised his arms, and Penelope threw a left first, then a right at Summers’ face, but both he countered.
Penelope faked a punch once, then punched with his right, but Summers let the punch sail past his head and caught Penelope's arm between his body and bicep, and with a sudden jerk rolled Penelope off him. He jumped to his feet.
Penelope scrambled back towards the door and raised his fists in a boxing stance, and Summers did the same, seeing nothing of his friend in the person he fought now.
Summers bounded forward, light on his feet.
Penelope swung, but Summers raised his arm and countered it, punching simultaneously with his other hand.
Penelope jerked backwards, dodging Summers by a centimeter. Summers approached again, and faked a punch with his right, Penelope countered and swung with his right at the same time, but this time Summers was ready and moved underneath the punch, caught it over his shoulder with both hands, turned with his back underneath Penelope's arm, and with a jerk he flipped Penelope over his hip and onto the ground with a heavy thud.
He dropped a knee into Penelope's ribs, and then caught him with a left on the jaw. That was it.
He stood off his bleeding, breathless friend and scrambled towards the door.
As his hand grasped the handle, however, he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun hammer cocking and then Penelope's blank voice. "Don't move, Chris."
Without turning from the door, he took his hand off the handle and raised his arms above his head.
"Tough decisions–right, pal?" Summers said calmly, despite the overflowing anger he felt drenching him in a cold sweat.
"Sorry, brother."
The way those two words drifted from Penelope's lips froze Summers’ heart, and he knew that his friend pointed a gun he fully intended to use.
Summers’ pulse quickened–and he blinked.
The room exploded, and Summers dived to his left at his bag on the floor a millisecond before Penelope fired.
Penelope fired three times. Summers landed behind his bed and reached his right hand into his bag, feeling his way to the heavy steel of his pistol.
He withdrew the gun and aimed underneath the bed. Without hesitating, he squeezed the trigger three times.
He heard Penelope grunt, but remained low, uncertain as to extent of damage inflicted. But Penelope didn't move, and fired no more shots, and cautiously, Summers stood to assess the damage.
He'd hit Penelope three times, from underneath his left armpit downward.
So that was it. Everything, th
e whole exchange, was over in a matter of seconds.
Summers walked over to his friend but stopped, feeling a horrible burning in his left shoulder and placed his hand on it, retracting it immediately from a horrible stinging.
He knew before he saw the blood on his hand that he'd been shot, and before he'd glanced at his blood-soaked shirt that he'd already lost a fair amount.
Stumbling over to Penelope, he knelt beside his friend, who was bleeding heavily and gurgling blood.
Penelope locked eyes with Summers.
"Well–shit," he said, blood foaming on his lips. He gurgled, and his eyes went blank.
Summers withdrew his phone from his pocket, dialing 9-1-1 as the room began to spin.
Chapter 17
Ron Howard adjusted his tie with a shaking hand damp from wiping his aching, sweating brow. He wondered if Chibiney Hall was that hot or if he was actually that nervous.
John Higgins stood nearby, whispering talking points he should redirect to from likely questions. Ron snuck glances at the crowd, which could have been a hundred thousand, but in reality was likely around two thousand. This was it, he thought. This was his moment.
"So this is it," he said aloud.
"This is it," John replied, checking his watch. Ron checked his. Just ten minutes until the debate began. He adjusted his tie again.
"We're going to win," John reassured him. "The people are afraid. The Diplomatists don't even have a plan. We have a plan. It's just a matter of demonstrating how unprepared the Diplomatists are."
Ron nodded and swallowed air. John handed him a bottle of water and Ron drank deeply. "How much longer now?" he asked.
John checked his watch. "Nine minutes."
"God."
John slapped Ron on the back, and Ron took a deep breath. Going out on stage in front of all those people, anyone of whom might try to kill him, set rocks in his stomach.
The Harbinger Break Page 27
