The Harbinger Break (7 page)

  
"Why are we here?" he whined as he looked at a woman with long braided hair, robes that gathered soot from the floor like a feather duster, and countless beads and charms wrapped around her neck and arms. Sam heard her through his lowered window as she discussed with a colleague the possible mind-to-mind connection that aliens might converse by, and if one could only tune into those communications, like a radio, one could unravel the mystery of their apparent indifference. The male psychic she was with nodded and reassured her that, before he met her, he knew she harbored those thoughts.

  
Pat shut and locked the doors of the Civic. "I can't be the only one who thinks the aliens might be hiding amongst us," he said. "Somebody else must suspect something. At this point, I'll take any ally I can find."

  
The hotel was of brick and stone, with a red neon sign attached vertically from the left that flickered 'VACANCY'. It was two stories, and the entrance lobby was separate from the rooms–each door led outside, and Sam hoped they'd get a room that overlooked the parking lot so he could keep an eye on his car.

  
The area seemed unsafe, and losing his car, his safety, his only way out of this mess would leave him trapped, a feeling he'd grown to hate since his time at GenDec. Upon further observation, it seemed that every room overlooked the parking lot.

  
Walking past the arguing psychics, avoiding eye-contact, they entered the lobby. The tile was old and clashed with the walls, the mural painted on the wall behind the front desk seemed to have been painted by an amateur, likely the original owner. He seemed to have wanted a renaissance feel for his inn, but gave up halfway.

  
They approached the front desk, which looked unattended. Pat rang the bell, and a moment later a fat woman with speckles of hair on her chin approached from the back room.

  
"You have a reservation?" she asked.

  
"No," Pat said.

  
"Separate beds?"

  
"Yes."

  
"How many nights?"

  
"Just one."

  
"I need a card to put on file." She held out a hand.

  
Pat looked at Sam, who sighed, and pulled a debit card from his wallet.

  
"Can you do us a favor?" Pat asked. The woman stopped typing and stared at him. He continued, "Hold that card, but don't swipe it until we check out. The Society of Psychics is supposed to comp us for our stay, but they haven't wired us money yet."

  
The woman nodded, and put the card in a slot by the computer. She typed a couple things. "Name?"

  
"John Higgins," Pat said. Sam kept a straight face, but felt his cheeks grow red.

  
She handed them their keys in a small envelope which had the room number written on it.

  
"Room 203. Outside, up the stairs, second door. Complimentary breakfast begins at six here in the lobby, ends at nine."

  
They thanked her. Pat turned and Sam followed. They didn't head to their room. Instead, they entered the dining area of the lobby, where six psychics were chatting. As they approached, the single male of the group turned and nodded. "I don't recognize you two, I overheard you mention the Society of Psychics."

  
Pat studied the man for a few seconds before responding. "I'm surprised that the subconscious didn't inform you, Mr Ron Howard, that we were coming."

  
The man nodded. "Impressive. Come join us, John Higgins. Who's your friend?"

  
Pat turned to Sam and looked him up and down, "this is Theron Thurston."

  
"Ah, Mr Thurston, of course. There is a pharmacy a few blocks away, a shame you forgot your MetroGel."

  
Sam's jaw dropped. He quickly composed himself. "Thank you, Mr Howard."

  
"Please. Call me Ron."

  
"Ron. Thanks."

  
Ron nodded. Pat turned to him. "What has the subconscious told you of the aliens of late?" he asked.

  
Ron stroked his thin beard. "The aliens, ah. I see you've yet to make a connection. They call themselves Rhaokins, and they hail from Clorf. I converse with their king, per se, on a somewhat daily basis. His name is Had Radrill, and they are friendly, and they have much to teach us."

  
Pat nodded solemnly, "I was afraid you would say that. Had Radrill has contacted me as well. He is not king–he's what we would refer to as a con. You've been had by Had, I'm afraid. The aliens mean to harm us, and they walk the earth undetected as we speak. I've come to enlighten you all, that we may use our gift to save humanity."

  
Ron twisted his beard in his fingers.

  
"You don't say, Mr Higgins… you don't say…" he paused in thought. "Well, I've been told that I'm too trusting, as I've always carried a strong belief in the good of man, and this faith must have blinded me. I look for the best in all things, and it seems that this should one day be my downfall. But enough of my shortcomings–please, tell the rest of your findings."

  
Ron motioned for Pat and Sam to follow, and as he approached the others he cleared his throat.

  
"Everyone, as you may as well already know, this is John Higgins and Theron Thurston, and they come bearing grave news. Mr Higgins–if you would be so kind…"

  
"Certainly." Pat stepped forward. "As I'm sure some of you may have already sensed, Had Radrill, of the Rhaokins, is not to be trusted."

  
Murmurs of agreement resounded, and a woman with hair down to her hips stepped forward. "I am Cerulean Sky, and I too have been suspect to the misgivings of Had Radrill, though I feared to speak my concerns lest they be ungrounded. Your words ring true to me, Mr John Higgins, and I'm glad that you possess the courage to bring them forth–a courage which I, regretfully, lack." A few of the other psychics put hands on her shoulders.

  
A woman with a voice barely above a whisper spoke from the back. "What else have you seen, Mr Higgins?"

  
Pat brushed his long hair from his eyes. "They have contaminated our water supply, or food source, and have been poisoning us with an extraterrestrial hallucinogenic. This drug prevents us from seeing the Rhaokins living amongst us, running our law enforcement, our laws, maybe even our country. I suspect a Rhaokin is posing as a high up government official, yet whom that is I've not discerned. There may, in fact, be more than just one."

  
The woman with the whisper stepped forward. She was barely five feet tall, with short hair dyed blonde and multiple piercings on her ears and lips. "I know who one might be," she stated with a quiver. "The Vice President of the United States, Jordan Clearwater."

  
Her friend glanced over, shocked. "Stella, you never told me this."

  
"I never shared my fears with anyone, as to be suspect of insanity or treason," Stella replied. "After a period of fasting to cleanse my spirit, I observed on television from him a speech, and watched his face morph and change before my very eyes. I assumed I was seeing things from the various herbs and supplements I'd been taking, but it was so…
vivid
. I'm certain now of what I saw."

  
Sam looked at Pat, for a sign of disbelief, but saw none–although he was certain that Pat felt it. Sam shivered, excited and scared, and a cold, familiar sweat shook his foundation.

  
This was exactly as Pat described his visions, and to hear it reiterated from another person had to be more than a coincidence.

  
Sam wasn't certain of most things Pat shared, but from what Stella had said he now felt certain that the main food supply of the country was drugged. Sam once thought of paranoia, and the proof it required to be grounded fear. Now he knew. This wasn't paranoia, this had to be proof, this had to be fear.

  
The two conversed with the psychics for a few more hours, met the other psychics as they arrived, and it wasn't until well after sunset that they decided to call it, said goodnight, and went to their room.

  
Sam had too many questions, and they'd barely stepped a foot outside when he asked. "Okay, level with me, Pat. H-how did you know that guy's name? Ron Howard?"

  
Pat laughed. "I read it on the registry as we checked in. I assumed Ron checked in fairly recently, as he still had his car keys and bags with him and he was the last male name on the list. From there, I just took the risk. Worked well in our favor, I might add."

  
"Fine, that’s fine, but how did he know about me forgetting my MetroGel?"

  
"Because your rosacea is horrible–your face looks like a tan tomato."

  
Sam flushed and looked down. "O-oh."

  
Pat wiggled the key in the knob and unlocked their door. The room opened. It was dark, and had two beds and a small television on the opposing wall. Sam flicked on the lights and walked across the room, sitting on the bed furthest from the door. "So now what?" he asked.

  
"Now we watch the news. If we're lucky, they'll say nothing about us."

  
Pat tossed an apple across the room. Sam caught it, and turned it over in his hands, studying it woefully. His stomach growled as he frowned. Pat apparently expected this tiny fruit to pass for dinner.

  
Yeah, right, Sam thought, and considered instead taking the car to get some real food. Then he remembered the side of drugs he'd inevitably digest. Well, he'd been dealing with them fine so far. Better the drugs than starving to death.

  
But he never left. They sat on their beds and watched the news, and for some reason, Sam was relieved to see no stories concerning themselves–murderer or victim.

   Sam couldn't remember when he'd fallen asleep–he only knew when he was struck awake, at first by shaking and then the screaming alarm, blasting into his head and annihilating his dream world.

  
He opened his eyes, and Pat was bouncing him by the shoulders up and down on his bed, and at first Sam thought Pat was trying to kill him, but then he saw the blue and red lights dancing around their room, and heard the blaring sirens, and Sam was fully awake and aware even before Pat yelled, "Sam! Wake up! The jig is up!"

  
Sam rubbed his eyes and sat up. "What? I-I don't–how?"

  
"That fat bitch must have ran the card. Should've seen this coming. Fuck!"

  
They heard a door down the hall smash open. Pat yelled, "Make your bed and then hide, quickly!"

  
Sam threw the comforter over the bed, and then crouched on the floor beside the mattress. Pat did the same with his bed, then dived across Sam's and knelt down beside him. Not a second later, a kick smashed open the door of their room, and a flashlight's white beam crept from the beds to the floor.

  
"Clear!" a voice yelled, and footsteps receded from their room.

  
"Fuck!" Pat said.

  
Sam squeaked. "What are we gonna do?"

  
Pat closed his eyes. "I don't know. Let me think."

  
They were on the second floor. Police officers would post on both ends of the hall, by the stairs, plus a patrol car would be blocking the exit to the road from the inn. They were trapped.

  
In a moment, the cops would find out which room was theirs and storm in, guns drawn. The room began to spin around Sam, and he wiped his brow, attempting to steady himself.

  
Pat was deep in thought, head in his hands and eyes shut tight, as if attempting to squeeze a solution from his brain. They heard door after door smash open, sand trickling away, and had barely seconds to act.

  
Pat suddenly lit up. He tore the white sheet out from underneath the comforter, then quickly fixed the bed.

  
"Bathroom, now!" he whispered.

  
Wordlessly, Sam followed. Pat grabbed his razor and began cutting the sheet into strips.

  
"Take off your shirt," he said.

  
Sam did so without question, and Pat took the first strip and tied Sam's hands together.

  
Sam watched him uncomfortably. "What are you–?"

  
"I'm sorry about this pal, but it's the only way."

  
He pointed Sam to the bathtub, sat him down, and tied his feet together. Pat then wrapped Sam's neck around twice, loose enough so he could breathe, and secured that to the faucet of the tub.

  
"I'm really, really sorry about this. When they get here, say that I heard them coming and bailed before they arrived. Got it?"