The Harbinger Break (34 page)

  
As light filled the room, a voice sounded. It was deep, croaking, and malicious.

  
"Claire."

  
She screamed and fell backwards. A man in a black hoodie had his hand on the door, holding it shut. His head was bowed and hidden in shadow so she couldn't make out his face. As she scuttled backwards his exposed hand on the door caught her eye. It was red, bloody and blistered.

  
Her eyes widened in terror. "Who–what do you want?"

  
"You don't recognize me?"

  
The man's voice pierced her ears. Claire shook her head.

  
"Here, maybe this will help," he said.

  
He lifted his hood. She screamed again, then stifled the scream with her hand. The face she stared at was just as red as the hand, covered in flesh covered boils. It looked as if it'd be wet to the touch.

  
She couldn't believe her eyes. This was straight out of a nightmare.

  
"Lee?"

  
A dark and deep grunt left his lips, or what remained of them. It sounded like a chuckle, but with mirth removed entirely.

  
"Bingo."

  
She was at a loss. Here was the man who's death motivated her to deal with Patches herself. The guilt of his death she carried with her, and seeing him now filled her with a maelstrom of relief and fear.

  
"I'm so glad you're okay," she whispered.

  
"Okay?" He barked a laugh. "Do I look okay to you?"

  
Regret overwhelmed her.

  
"I'm glad you aren't dead."

  
"Oh, are you?"

  
"I am."

  
"Hey," he said, advancing. "Here's an idea: If you don't want someone dead, how about not tricking them to march to their death?"

  
Claire shook her head, inexplicably shivering from a cold terror. "I-I didn't know. I thought you could do it."

  
"Did you? You thought a person idiotic enough to agree to murder someone would be smart enough to kill a genius lunatic?"

  
"I paid you," she whispered. "You were the only one I could trust."

  
"No. I was the only one
stupid
enough to agree. You knew how I felt about you."

  
"I–"

  
He stormed forward and grabbed her jacket lapels, lifting her face close to his. The smell of his cooked, rotting flesh was nauseating.

  
"You what?"

  
"I'll pay for everything! I'll pay you, pay for surgery–you'll be fine! I'm so sorry!"

  
He let go, and her head dropped and banged the carpet floor. Stars danced in her vision.

  
"I'll be fine," he said. "Sure, I'll be fine."

  
Suddenly, he screamed. "I'm fucking dead, you moron! The blood loss, the full body third-degree burns–I'm lucky to be walking."

  
She looked past him to where she'd dropped her purse on the floor, wishing she could just grab it. Just grab it, and withdraw the gun she'd purchased earlier. He continued.

  
"Claire, for what you did to me, you deserve hell. I'd bring it to you–I'd fuck you 'till you bled in a puddle of your blood, but I physically can't–so I guess I'll have to settle for the next best thing."

  
She sat up, alternating glances at Lee and her purse, and watched him withdraw a gun from the hand-warmer of his hoodie. He stared at it curiously.

  
She prepared to lunge. It was her only chance.

  
"Isn't it interesting," Lee said suddenly. "You hired a guy who'd never even used a gun before."

  
She froze.

  
He continued. "The guy I bought it from bought blanks instead of real bullets. You hired a guy so worthless at killing, he couldn't even get a weapon to do so."

  
She couldn't wait a moment longer. This was it–now or never.

  
She lunged. He looked, and as she grabbed her purse he kicked, bashing her head like a soccer ball, breaking her nose. Blood spurted as she cried out.

  
"Lee, please–no! I'm begging you!"

  
What was left of Lee's face remained expressionless as he pulled her purse aside.

  
"Bet you have a real gun in there–bullets and everything," he said. "See, I don't have that. All I have is this thing and fake bullets."

  
He turned the gun in his hand, holding it upwards by the barrel with the hilt facing outwards.

  
"But it'll have to do."

  
"No!" Claire said. She attempted to raise her arms to protect herself, but for nothing.

  
Three times in quick succession he smashed the hilt into her skull. That was the last she knew. Everything else–her drifting, pervading thoughts–the regret, the pain, the hunger, the desire, the fear–all disappeared with her senses into a black shroud.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Midnight, six hours after Penelope and Claire left the hotel, Summers still hadn't heard from either of them, and his paranoia grew. What if his friend had turned, or worse, betrayed him? He shook his head–Penelope wouldn't do that. At least, he hoped.

  
A knock resounded on his door, and Summers sighed. Finally, Penelope was back. He'd either lost or forgotten his room key, but at least he was back.

  
Summers opened the door.

  
His stomach fell. Standing before him wasn't Penelope, but Harrison Alcove, dressed casually, wearing his usual smug grin.

  
Summers glared. "What the hell, Alcove."

  
"Summers. Who would've guessed that stalking you would solve so many of my problems?"

  
Summers shook his head. "I don't have time for your bullshit, Alcove. It's midnight, we can talk in the morning."

  
"Afraid that won't do chief. May I?"

  
Harrison motioned to enter, and Summers sighed and stepped aside. Normally he would've told Harrison to shove it, but he was curious as to what Harrison knew.

  
Harrison looked around the room, then turned back to Summers.

  
"What, no liquor?"

  
"Quit wasting my time. Speak or leave."

  
"Straight to the point as always, Summers. Fine." He grinned. "Who would've guessed that by following you, I'd not only find Shane, but figure out who's responsible for the GenDec Principal's death as well? Berry, was it? It's almost too good to be true."

  
Summers glared at Alcove. "What are you talking about?"

  
"I mean, of course, that letter you mailed from Paige's. Thought I'd find you if I camped there long enough, after breaking into your place and finding it empty. It was easy enough to reach into that mailbox and grab the letter after you left." He shook his head and shrugged. "Don't worry, after I read the contents I resealed it and sent it. I'm the only one who knows the truth. And don't waste my time playing dumb–I have photographs."

  
Summers shook his head and almost laughed. "You honestly can't be that stupid, Alcove. Blackmail?"

  
"No no, nothing like that." Harrison said. He grinned. "I'm just letting you know, that's all. By the way, don't try killing Shane. I'm going to be keeping a close eye on him–I even have tickets for tomorrow's debate. If anything happens, Summers, I'll be gunning for you."

  
Summers glared. Alcove's grin widened.

  
"So yeah, that's it. I'll be seeing you, Summers. Good catching up. Say hey to Paige for me."

  
He turned and left abruptly, shutting the door behind him.

  
Summers was left dumbfounded. If Harrison had a play, which he likely did, it certainly wasn't obvious. What was he planning?

  
Summers sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes. Harrison hated him, that much was obvious. He'd gotten the promotions that Harrison wanted in a shorter period of time, plus he was certain that Alcove had a thing for Paige.

  
But this pseudo-blackmail solved nothing for him. Did he intend to turn in his evidence and send Summers to jail?

  
But why reveal himself now? Why give Summers a chance to run?

  
Then it hit him. Paige. It had to be.

  
Harrison wanted Summers to save Paige. He didn't want to send Summers to jail right now because that would implicate Paige as a conspirator, and she'd see jail time as well. He knew Summers would never allow that.

  
So what did Alcove expect him to do?

  
Summers thought back to moments earlier. What had Harrison said?

  
"Don't try killing Shane."

  
Summers scratched his head. So Harrison had guessed that Summers was here for that reason, or a reason similar.

  
At that moment, Summers understood–Harrison wasn't telling him not to kill Shane. He was giving Summers a way out. He wanted Summers to kill Shane tomorrow. Harrison wanted to catch him in the act and kill him, and he wanted Summers to realize that and do it anyway. To sacrifice himself, killing Shane and saving Paige.

  
It was simple: Alcove wanted to be finished with Shane, kill Summers, and have Paige to himself. This would give him all three.

  
Summers stood from the bed. He scratched his head, then began to pace.

  
What choice did he have? He had to kill Shane, especially now with the Purgist party at a pinnacle.

  
Soon Shane would be untouchable, and this was bigger than himself.

  
With Paige on the table–his death leading to her freedom–it was too much to pass up.

  
So in the end, Harrison just wanted to gloat. Nothing had changed. Summers was still going to go through with his plan, just now he knew without question that he wouldn't survive.

  
In the end, Harrison just wanted Summers to know that he'd gotten the better of him. That after all these years, Harrison finally won.

  
So that was it.

  
By killing Shane, he'd not only be saving countless, but saving Paige as well, the cost of which being his life.

  
Whatever. He never actually expected get away scott-free killing Shane, especially with Penelope on the fence. He didn't expect to die, but what choice did he have? Kill Shane and die, or let Shane go free, both he and Paige get jail time, and humanity as an ideal is destroyed forever.

  
It was an easy decision, and he hated Harrison for it.

  
Especially because it was in that moment, as he resolved to die for Paige, that he realized he loved her.

  
Summers glanced around the room. Harrison had been right about one thing though. He needed liquor.

Chapter 16

   Ron Howard awoke the following morning at ten. He took a leisurely stroll to a nearby cafe and ordered coffee, two eggs over easy, bacon, toast, and breakfast potatoes. Normally he read the paper while eating breakfast, but today he just wanted to relax.

  
He smiled and shook hands with the patrons, most of whom wished him good luck, although a few gave him a nasty glare. He knew that they were likely just members of the opposing party, but he couldn't help from thinking–there sits the person who might kill me today.

  
He tried to shake the thought from his mind, but it lingered. He reasoned that every politician had feared at one point during their career that some lunatic might end their life, but those politicians went on and did what they had to do anyway. If those people could force themselves to overcome fear and do their job, so could he.

  
He paid his check, then made his way to the office. It was a quarter to twelve. The debate would be held at five-thirty. As he opened the door and strolled in, John Higgins slammed down the phone and approached, clearly in the midst of a nervous breakdown. "There you are!" he said. "I've been trying to reach you for an hour–where've you been?"

  
Ron had never seen his campaign manager so emotional, and his show of humanity calmed Ron as he took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. "I had breakfast. Needed to calm my nerves."

  
"Well sure hope your nerves are calm now, because if you haven't noticed, the fate of humanity lies solely on your ability to show up to places on time. Can you do that? For humanity, Ron?"

  
Theron approached the pair. "Calm down, Higgins," he said, grinning oddly. "Breakfast is just the thing to calm nerves and get brain juice flowing."

  
John Higgins sighed and threw up his hands. "Fine. Excuse me for being worried. I've been working for years towards this moment." He locked eyes with Theron and said, "I've done some things I'm not proud of."

  
Theron nodded, and then John turned and clasped Ron on the shoulder. "But this is finally something I feel proud of. Something that can do some real good. This is the first step in humanity's fight back!"

  
Suddenly one of their campaign employees stormed in with the paper clasped firmly in his hand. He looked at Theron, then at John and Ron and told them to follow him, and for Theron to wait behind.

  
Ron shrugged at Theron and followed the employee, who's name was Erik, with John behind him, and when they closed themselves inside Ron's office Erik slammed the paper down on Ron's desk.

  
The headline read, "Corruption at the Genetic Decontamination Centre!" and in the middle of the page was an unmistakable picture of Theron Thurston, but labeled as Sam Higgins.

  
Ron wordlessly picked up and read the article. The Genetic Decontamination Centre was under inspection by government agencies who audited the facility's records, and the facility would likely be shut down within the month after recent findings.

  
The article went on to say that days after the murder of Founder Daniel Berry, an anonymous letter was delivered to the Jacksonville Herald, and the editor, understanding the implications of its contents, opted not to write an article then and give GenDec an opportunity to erase its records, and instead sent the evidence of corruption to the FBI, who launched an investigation and collected the records before they could be destroyed.

  
A spokesman for the FBI said that by the journalist's selfless actions, he'd likely saved the facility's children, because without the evidence contained in those records they wouldn't have had anything with which to build a case against GenDec.

  
But that wasn't why his employee stared wild-eyed at the paper–it was because the boy in the picture looked unmistakably like a younger Theron Thurston. "And your last name is Higgins, John," Ron said. "What exactly is going on here?"

  
John looked just as shocked as the two men. "I can't explain it, Ron. Is it an ingenious ploy by the aliens to cause confusion within our party? Is it an attempt by the other party to confuse and cause the Purge to collapse within itself? Is it just a blatant error? Or just a coincidence? I can't tell you. But I promise you, Ron, we will figure this out, but after today. This debate is more important than anything else, and if this article is just a clever ploy by outside forces to disrupt us, than by succumbing to it now we've already lost."

  
Ron sighed. John was right, of course. But why did this seem to coincide with the growing ache in his gut, the unshakable feeling that something wasn't right?

  
"John, I need you to swear to me, by God, by everything you hold dear and sacred, that you have my back," Ron said. "That you will do everything in your power to ensure my safety. For I can't shake the feeling that oil is spilling, the spark is lit, and it's just a matter of time before I'm lost within the fiery depths of chaos."

  
John held his gaze and nodded. "I swear, Ron. I've been fighting for this cause my whole life. I've done terrible things to ensure the safety of humanity. If you fall, it'll only be because I've already fallen."

  
Ron nodded. He might have felt uncertain of his situation, but the way in which John expressed his sincerity left no doubt in Ron's mind of his campaign manager's loyalty.

  
The three men left Ron's office and returned to the main office area. By now, Theron had seen the news as well and looked pale, but with a reassuring nod from John he seemed to calm. If this was a ploy by the aliens then it was genius. And he was the front runner of the charge against them. He'd have to read up on warfare tactics.

  
"Do you want to review our discussion topics?" John asked.

  
Ron rubbed his head as a second headache began to form and he breathed heavily–just realizing then that he'd been holding his breath. "Yes, lets."

◊   ◊   ◊

   It felt like everyone in the office had their eyes glued to Sam, and he grew nervous. Why did that article have to be released today, of all days? How hard would it be for them to determine his real identity now? They even had his real name. He was just glad that the article didn't mention his citizenship, at least he could hold on to that for a little while longer.

  
His gun seemed to rustle in his computer bag in an unmistakable gun on polyethylene scratching that seemed, to him, obviously gun on polyethylene, and not possibly any other sound. Everyone around him seemed to know as well, and their eyes screamed at him, "We know who you are and what you're going to do, Sam Higgins!"

  
He had to get out of the office for a while. He'd accomplished most all of the work he had to do, and the other campaign employees could finish what he hadn't, and he needed desperately to organize his thoughts.

  
He grabbed his things, held his bag under his arm and left the office without telling anyone why. And they seemed to hold their curious gaze all the way until Sam stepped foot outside of the office and the door shut behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief once free from prodding eyes.

  
The sun, west of its zenith, glared down as Sam left the office, and he had to shield his eyes from the blinding reflections on parked cars. The debate was in four hours and a cocktail of excitement and fear stirred inside him.

  
He wondered where he should go. Unfortunately, he and Pat slept at the office, as they had no place of their own in Savannah, so he couldn't just hide out in the safety of a home. But he could probably merge within the crowd at Chibiney Hall and from there realize the full extent of his sloppy, thrown together plan. This made sense anyway, because he could hang out inside, even before the Hall guards set up their entrance, so he wouldn't have to worry about sneaking his gun inside.

  
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.