The Harbinger Break (36 page)

  
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.

  
"You can do this Ron. You have to," John said.

  
"I know."

  
"You don't have a choice."

  
"I know."

  
"The fate of–"

  
"–I know, John. Please."

  
"Alright," John said. "But this is easy for you. You're the best man for this. I wouldn't trust the fate of Earth in any other man's hands."

  
Ron didn't respond.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Sam stood away from Ron and Pat. There wasn't much left to do aside from wait. The debate would begin in five minutes, and as he watched Pat reassure Ron he couldn't help but think that his secret intention was exactly what Pat wanted–exactly what their Purgist party needed. He fiddled nervously with the gun in his pocket.

  
"Mr Ron Howard?"

  
A girl, no older than himself or Pat ran forward with a large camera hanging around her neck. Ron turned at his name.

  
"Mr Howard, if you wouldn't mind–can I please take you picture for the paper?"

  
Pat turned to a nearby security guard. "Get her out of here."

  
The security guard began to approach. Ron stopped him.

  
"Really, John. It's no trouble." He turned to the girl. "Sure, sweetheart. Just the one, though."

  
The girl grinned. "Thanks so much–this will only take a second.'

  
Pat stepped a few paces out of the shot, annoyed. The girl leveled her camera.

  
Sam eyed Ron curiously.

  
The camera flashed, and in that instant, as Sam looked into Ron's eyes he saw something. He couldn't believe what he saw, but there was no mistaking it.

  
The girl had her camera up to her face.

  
Pat stood at Ron's side, as did the guard behind him.

  
Sam knew he was he only one who saw it, but there was no mistaking it.

  
As the camera had flashed, Sam saw metal behind Ron's eyes.

  
Silver, with a black line across the middle, splitting his pupils horizontally. He saw it for an instant, but there was no mistaking it.

  
Ron, or whoever he really was, was not as he claimed. He was an alien or being possessed by one. He and Pat had inadvertently brought America crouching at the alien's knees.

  
The Hall was loud, frighteningly loud. The time was near, and Sam was at a complete and utter loss.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Lee avoided curious glances. Those around him hadn't seen his face, they'd just inhaled his noxious scent–but even that was enough to arouse suspicion.

  
Not that he cared. The pain he felt was overwhelming, and he attributed the fact that he still stood to revenge and hatred and nothing else empowering every limb. As soon as Pat Shane was dead he knew he'd collapse and die on the spot.

  
The lights brightened, the crowd erupted, and two men stepped from either side of the stage towards their respective podiums.

Chapter 18

   Light blasted Ron's eyes as he walked onstage, hand raised and waiving to the crowd. His head thumped louder than ever, but with every ounce of his being he willed his ears from bleeding–not now, not here.

  
He shook his head, then locked eyes with Wilson Carter. They met in the middle of the stage and shook hands.

  
Carter faked a smile. "Your party is full of lunatics, and you'll be the ruin of this country," he said.

  
Somehow, that immediately wiped the fear and thumping from Ron's mind, and bounding back he returned a fake smile. "The naivety of your party will lead to the extinction of humanity," he replied, looking out at the crowd and waving once again. The lights were so bright.

  
They broke away, and as they did so Wilson said, "Leave the politics to the professionals, psychic."

  
Ron didn't respond. John had already warned and prepared him for the opposing party's inevitable arguments involving his profession and had invented, in Ron's opinion, a great rebuttal. "While you wait around for proof, we act. We discovered the drugged food while you continued eating it like sheep. The aliens have been and will continue to use your inability to see through the veil of deceit until we're all dead."

  
The people knew that it was the psychics who had warned of the drugged food, and with the exposure of the topic in local papers the Purgists gained the credibility they needed to bring their other controversial topics to light.

  
Ron walked back to his podium, and as he did so he glanced backstage to see John approaching, and behind him in the shadows, Theron Thurston.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Sam knew Pat only approached Ron to offer quick reassurance, to gage his confidence–but this was his moment. He watched Pat smile and wave at the audience, who applauded the familiar face.

  
Sam shifted his weight and locked eyes with Ron.

  
Ron glanced at Sam's hand, saw the gun it held, and his eyes bulged.

  
Pat saw the look on Ron's face and turned.

  
Sam took a deep breath. This was it. Minutes earlier he'd been certain of his plan. Now he had no idea.

  
Who should he kill? Pat, or Ron?

  
He blinked, and time slowed to the beat of a dripping faucet.

  
The roaring of the crowd deepened in pitch. He could feel the ridges in the hilt of his pistol. A droplet of sweat fell from his knuckles and exploded on the stage's wooden floor.

  
If time were water, it burst like a fountain before Sam and a clarity more rare than gold in a riverbed appeared before him. He saw a multiverse branch out and various streams form, each a consequence of the choice before him now–the next few seconds influencing centuries to come.

  
He saw the first of many rivers, a stream of time condensed into a fraction of a second: He could kill Pat as he'd intended.

  
Pat carried a knife on him, and in this peculiar moment it'd be simple for Sam to claim Pat had walked onstage to kill Ron. He'd reveal Pat's true identity, the serial killer, and Sam would be declared a hero.

  
But Ron, a true to life alien, would then have control and hold it strongly. Sam could never reveal the truth–not that anyone would ever believe him. He saw the FBE ostracized and decommissioned for allowing a murderer so close to murder. He saw humanity grow weak and unassuming under Ron's control. Through him, the paranoia and fear of aliens would falter. A utopia would form. Humanity would never suspect alien influence due to how well they'd be thriving.

  
But freedom would slowly diminish.

  
He could see it, little changes at first–alien scaremongering would become a crime and result in jail time. Soon to follow but over a great period of time, all existing programs of war and defense would lose funding and eventually shut down. There would be no murder because there would be nothing to murder with.

  
Then, with humanity effectively muzzled and freedom destroyed, the aliens could do as they wished.

  
But like the turning of a page, a second stream of time flashed before him: He could kill Ron.

  
Kill the alien, but never prove his motivation as such. He could claim it, but as Ron Howard currently led the party campaigning heaviest for humanity's survival, who'd believe him? Who'd even listen? He would've just murdered the most influential politician since Former President Morgan Scott.

  
So he'd be the honest, true to life hero, having stopped the true villain–but no one would ever know–glory would never he his. And at what cost?

  
Not even Ron's death could prevent collapse.

  
In his mind, Sam saw the Purgist party falling and the Radicalists sympathizing with the remaining Purgists, intending to avenge Ron. They'd discover Sam's Cuban heritage, and declare war on Cuba, claiming that Sam's attack was an attempt to destabilize America and that Cuba was under alien influence. Countless mutual assistance pacts that had formed over the years would come into play, each side insisting that the other had fallen to alien control, and all-out nuclear war would follow.

  
Humanity's freedom would remain intact, but billions would die.

  
But there was still a third stream of time before him: He could simply lower his gun unfired. The debate would happen and the Purgist party would gain tremendous support. He would fall to shadows forgotten, meanwhile Pat would eventually discover the truth, kill Ron, and take control of the Purgist party.

  
Under Pat's direction, the aliens would become public enemy number one. Programs intended to expel them would rise–concentration camps, interrogation facilities, even neurological hospitals for human dissection–all in an attempt to save humanity.

  
Not only would freedom be forfeit, but millions would die.

  
These streams of time among countless others flashed before Sam as he stood on stage, gun in hand.

  
He looked from Pat to Ron, and from Ron to Pat, studying the fear and confusion on each of their faces.

  
There Sam stood frozen in time–uncertain, scared, and confused–but with a simple desire. He wanted glory, he wanted to be a hero, he wanted to do tremendous good, not tremendous evil.

  
He wanted to be a real hero, not just perceived as one. He wanted to save humanity, but every choice that presented itself, every stream of time he followed, seemed disastrous.

  
He lifted his gun. Not a single pair of eyes watching the stage was ignorant to the threat revealed. His finger twitched on the trigger. It was wet with sweat, and his finger seemed to slip slightly as he added tension. Gasps resounded, and a heavy footstep from behind him shook the floor.

  
Be it by luck or lack of focus, Sam's gaze suddenly shifted to a movement in the crowd. Maybe it was due to the glisten of the overhead lights on the metal's sheen, but when Sam turned he immediately saw a gun from the crowd aimed at Pat and Ron.

  
He followed the arm holding the gun to the hooded face and saw the evil in it–the red, blistered skin padding dark eyes–and instinct turned his gun from the pair onstage to the monstrosity in the crowd.

  
His finger clenched and not one but two explosions erupted, simultaneously, shaking the world, deepening shadows and brightening light.

  
The hooded figure collapsed as time resumed its normal pace and screaming pitched from deep to screeching. Sam glanced down as his vision swam.

  
Red began seeping from his chest, drenching his shirt. He was bleeding–he'd been shot.

  
Turning around on unsteady legs, he saw the guard's gun still aimed at him. Sam noted the look of shocked horror on the guard's face and as Sam fell backwards he considered that maybe he'd made the right choice, only just hesitated for a second too long.

  
The guard's shot hit him from behind, just as he'd jumped from his slip in time and shot the monster in the audience.

  
Sam blinked as he lay on his back staring at the overhead lights, screams turning into an overwhelming whine. He'd saved a couple lives and killed a monster–not bad for a hero's end, he thought.

  
The lights dimmed as Sam coughed, and then he let go.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Ron saw Theron fall, saw the creature in the audience collapse, and the thumping in his head returned stronger than ever. He didn't have to touch his ears to know they were bleeding.

  
He felt someone roughly grab his shoulder as flashing from hundreds of cameras strobed around him, and turned to see John Higgins pulling him roughly away from the podium, a curious look on his face as he glared into Ron's eyes.

  
"Follow me now," John said. His brow then narrowed, and Ron noted the look of furious anger in his eyes.

  
Ron couldn't think–the thumping was overwhelming. Chibiney Hall became a blur as guards covered the pair on all sides, rushing them through door after door, around, about, doubling back, and finally into a black SUV.

  
With a screech of tires, him and John were hauled off, the thumping in Ron's brain preventing any thought or understanding. Not that anyone spoke aside from direct commands.

  
Time lost meaning, and he could only watch as he instinctively followed a legion of guards, which turned from a legion to a small party of guards, and then that group disintegrate to just John Higgins.

  
They hurried in and out of a car, in and out of a motel room, and into a different, smaller car and onto the road.

  
He sat in the passenger seat as John drove, fast and recklessly south down the I-95 byway. He wondered where they were going, but couldn't piece together words enough to ask.

  
John didn't speak, and fear joined the thumping that split Ron's mind.