The Harbinger Break (21 page)

  
But at that moment the professor stabbed him, deep, and Mitch cried out as the whole left side of his body seemed to engulf in fire and freeze simultaneously. He screamed, but the air seemed to leave his lungs with more volume than that used to carry his voice, and his scream was cut short.

  
Suddenly, he couldn't breathe in. It felt like he was painfully drowning–suffocating even, as if he'd breathed in all the air he could, although his lungs felt completely empty. He tried desperately to lock eyes with the professor, but he was out of sight. If only he could explain, why wouldn't the professor let him explain? His face burned, and it felt as if he was crying lava as opposed to tears.

  
The professor then spoke, barely above a whisper. "I know you didn't kill them. I did."

  
The words took a moment to register, but as soon as they did, Mitch knew he was a dead man. That's why the professor had turned on the television, the faucet, and the shower. And that's why the professor had cut him in a manner that stopped him from breathing. So Mitch couldn't call out to the men downstairs–couldn't warn them.

  
The professor taped an occlusive wad of tissue paper over Mitch's wound, letting air only escape, and Mitch slowly regained a breath. He wanted to yell, he wanted to beg, but knew that if he did anything besides breathe the professor would simply remove the paper and Mitch would suffocate once more.

  
"If you try screaming," the professor said. "That used breath is your last. Understand?"

  
Mitch already knew that, and nodded, continuing to breath.

  
"I have to assume that you're an alien," the professor continued. "The problem is, regardless of whether or not you are an alien, your only chance of survival is not only admitting to it, but proving it to me. Because I have no problem killing you if you're human, or an alien who thinks we humans are soft, and not willing to do whatever it takes to save ourselves. You must have some idea of what I'm willing to do, you've seen the Thomas's blood on your clothes. They too might've been aliens. Admit it, prove it, and call off the rest of your species, or die painfully. It's your choice."

  
He waited for Mitch to respond, but Mitch only kept breathing, searching his brain for those few words that could save him, having no idea what they could be. How could he reason with the professor? How could he prove he wasn't an alien? He had to try–it was the only way.

  
"I'm not an alien," he said.

  
The professor lifted the tissue and Mitch wanted to scream as he once again felt his chest vacuum air.

  
"I don't know if you are under orders not to tell me, you're convinced that we humans are soft, or you just don't fear death," the professor growled. "But understand that I will kill you and everyone in this town unless you come clean now."

  
Tears streaked down Mitch's cheeks as his skin shifted from red to purple.

  
The professor covered the hole again, and a minute later Mitch's breathing stabilized from labored to shallow and steady.

  
"Professor–please."

  
Shane interrupted him. "The next words out of your mouth better be an admission or you will die."

  
Mitch panted as Shane held the hole by his ribs and glared. It hurt so badly, and he had nothing. Regardless of what he said, Shane was going to kill him. He was convinced that someone in this town was an alien, and the only way to be sure the alien was killed was to kill everyone. It didn't matter–he was a dead man no matter what he said. So be it.

  
"Please," Mitch said.

  
The professor didn't hesitate. He slashed twice in quick succession, and blood poured from Mitch's neck as he stared at the ceiling unblinking. His vision grew dim, and he closed his eyes, thinking for his last moments that he was back on the ice, fallen and drifting as his teammates skated over to congratulate him.

Chapter 10

   Within a couple minutes, Penelope had unlocked the front door to Daniel Berry's home. Summers’ digital watch read just past three in the morning, and he felt eerily conspicuous with his and Penelope's matching black on black getup with black masks that covered their noses, chins, and hair.

  
"We're one with the night," Penelope had argued, which Summers couldn't deny–he just felt daft.

  
The door creaked open and the duo crept inside. Flashlights with tight, focused beams illuminated the dark rooms and hallways of Berry's home.

  
They needed to find incriminating evidence that could bring down Daniel Berry and GenDec. Documentation would likely be kept in Berry's office, which meant their primary objective was obtaining his keys, but anything condemning they could find would make their task that much easier. Penelope also brought with them a fingerprint scanner, which could print out a plastic replica of whomever's finger it scanned. Summers was thrilled that Penelope owned such a device, but when questioned, Penelope's only response was a laughing, "why not?"

  
Berry's fingerprint was critical in obtaining entry to GenDec, so Summers didn't press the matter.

  
Once situated in Berry's home, the pair split up. Summers was to find the keys, and Penelope was to sneak into Berry's bedroom and scan the sleeping man's finger.

  
Summers looked over as Penelope self-illuminated his face and mouthed silently that he was heading towards the bedroom, and Summers focused his light on his own face and nodded–all part of the plan.

  
His friend disappeared into Berry's bedroom. Summers entered the kitchen, snooping around Berry's countertops and cabinets.

  
Fortunately, the man lived alone, but his house could've easily held a family of five–considering not only the space, but the mess. There were old newspapers, finished soda cans, plates, pizza boxes, tissues, and napkins scattered on tables, counters, and floors. The room smelled of subtle sulfur and cheese, there was a heavy air to the room, and the flashlight's beam constantly illuminated particles of dust no matter where Summers pointed. For the money he was making, Summers wondered why the man didn't hire a maid.

  
He knew why as soon as the last word of the question scrolled across his mind. He obviously had something hidden that he didn't want found.

  
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 shoulder, 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.