The Harbinger Break (9 page)

  
It parked. The medics hopped out and went around back to unload the stretcher, then sprinted with it into the building. Pat heard yelling from inside–a stabbing?

  
Oh well. Running to the ambulance, he systematically checked the doors. They locked the back, the drivers side, the passenger door, he checked the chassis door on the passenger side–unlocked!

  
People were running around the building–nobody would notice him. He darted inside, closed the door behind him and locked it. There was a bench to his left, in front was the captain's chair, and to the right was the cabin. He hopped through the small opening and sat down in the driver's seat. On the console to his right were two radios, countless switches, and a knob. He hit the switch labeled THRUST and immediately the ambulance shook and lifted slightly off the ground. The steering wheel loosened from its hold on the dash. He could push it in and out and slide it side to side. He pulled it out, only slightly, and the ambulance began to rise into the air.

  
"Charlie three–" dispatch croaked over the radio.

  
Pat ignored it and kept rising. He rose above the building and looked around. The sky was empty.

  
"Charlie three, you've engaged thrust. Are you 51 with patient?"

  
Pat didn't respond. He pushed the power button on the radio and turned it off. Then he noticed–blood on his finger? Wait, blood on his hands? Where was Sam?

  
But the thought evaporated as quickly as it'd surfaced. He was flying an ambulance, he had to hide, he had to get out of there.

  
He pushed the steering wheel upwards, and the ambulance sped forwards. He knew he was heading north, he needed to head south. That was the way back home, to Sam's house. Sam would be there.

  
He turned the steering wheel, and the ambulance began to pivot in place. Easy enough. He pressed the wheel upwards again and flew through the fog.

  
Now flying comfortably, he tried to organize his thoughts. His mind was fragmented, like it had been through a shredder–and he slowly taped together the pieces. Random memories–some real, some imagined–flashed through his brain.

  
He felt the electrotherapy of GenDec, it felt so real, nausea bubbled from the pit of his stomach. He shook his head and kept flying.

  
Suddenly, sirens erupted from far off. Without thinking, he flipped the switch labeled MASTER and the lights in the ambulance turned off. He pushed in the steering wheel and the ambulance began to descend quickly.

  
He reached the ground, flipped off the THRUST switch, and a moment later his wheels were on the ground, although he had no idea where he was. He turned off the headlights, turned off the truck, and darkness engulfed him.

  
Sirens faded away, and Pat felt his racing heart slow. He was lucky–if they'd caught him he'd have had no excuse. He couldn't explain the visions, he had no recollection of where he'd been–of however long it'd been since he sprinted from the hotel.

  
That was the last thing he remembered, sprinting from the Quarter Moon Inn. That was when his thoughts grew hazy and the next somewhat solid memory he could form was the man in the duster from the screened in area, although whether that man was real or imaginary remained a mystery.

  
The sirens melted with the fog of the night and he wondered if he'd imagined them. He'd been flying for at least thirty, maybe forty minutes. The thrust-enabled ambulances were new, he was surprised at how vulnerable they were to theft.

  
He looked around, but couldn't tell where he was. Turning the ambulance back on, he flipped on the master, then the floodlights to illuminate his surroundings.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Cameron Thomas jumped to his feet as a blinding light blasted through his house from the backyard. He resided in Sherwood Hills, Georgia, and in their neck of the woods life never yielded anything out of the ordinary, which is what made the blinding light easy to disbelieve, at least at first.

  
Sherwood Hills was a small, somewhat-religious neighborhood, built separate from modern civility by his friend and developer Jack Evans.

  
Cameron lived with his wife and son. His wife was in bed, his son asleep, and he danced between reality and the dream world in the living room as the flickering blue light from his television illuminated his face, when his home was filled with a blinding light erupting from his backyard.

  
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head–he was exhausted, and considered the light as just a trick of his brain, but the light persisted and curiosity dragged his legs from his couch and to the backyard, where the light seemed to originate.

  
Then he saw it–a UFO in his backyard, sitting in the grassy field in the center of the neighborhood's mutual backyard. He rubbed his eyes, yet it persisted, and reality struck home. He ran back inside, up the stairs, and shook his wife awake.

  
"Caroline!"

  
She stirred, blinked a few times, and took off her reading glasses. She was under the covers, and had fallen asleep with her glasses on and book in hand.

  
"What?" she asked, slurring sleepily.

  
"UFO. Backyard! Quickly!"

  
She sat up on her pillows. "Cameron calm down. What?"

  
"You have to come with me right now! Quickly!"

  
She shook the sleep from her head, put on slippers, and as soon as she stood Cameron grabbed her hand and dragged her down the stairs, through the house, and into the backyard, where her eyes and mind forgot all about sleep.

  
There it was, a real UFO in their backyard, blasting their home with an impenetrable light. A few neighbors nearby had noticed the light as well and began wandering outside, gathering from their homes to surround the UFO, but were too afraid to approach.

  
Brandon Holt shouted from his patio. "What's going on Cameron? Is that a UFO?"

  
"You bet it is, Holt!"

  
With a rumble and a thrust, the UFO began rising, and the neighborhood gasped. "I don't believe it!" yelled Sandra Evans.

  
And into the air it rose, higher and higher, then the lights flickered off. It became a speck and flew south, disappearing into the night.

◊   ◊   ◊

  
Excerpt from United States President Morgan Scott's fifth Presidential Directive: Technological and Genetic Security Advancement - October 1, 1981:

  
The advances and programs outlined in this directive will guide the long-term development of our strategic forces. This will address the obvious technological gap and inherent weaknesses of our defenses against the possible extra-terrestrial invasion. The result will improve our current security and stimulate future technological growth.

  
It is important to bear in mind that the following mutually reinforcing parts, although inherently radical, are necessary to ensure the survival of not just our country, but our planet.

  
(1) Tax relief for technological research and development institutions, focusing on aeronautics and space technology. A catalyst for immediate growth.

  
(2) Implementation of the Federal Bureau of Eugenics, responsibilities include guiding the evolution of man, leading to stable, more intelligent future generations.

  
(3) Research and development into chemical means to improve human intelligence.

  
(4) Increasing accuracy, payload, and construction speed of Probe Launched Ballistic Missiles (PLBM) and general increased research and development into space warfare technology.

  
(5) Research and development of satellite reconnaissance relays from Europa.

  
ANY financial resources required for the completion of the program directed by this decision must be derived from currently planned and approved Defense budget allocations.

Chapter 4

   Pat turned off the flood lights. He'd seen the faces staring at him, not realizing until they surrounded him that he'd accidentally landed in someone’s backyard. Tossing away the thought, he continued south, now that he'd once again evaded the police.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Sam Higgins lost his tongue, dumbfounded, staring at the beautiful woman on his front porch. He rubbed the back of his head. "Um, can I help you, miss…?"

  
She smiled cruelly. "Claire Waltz."

  
Sam stumbled backwards, as if she'd slapped him. "S-shit. Seriously?"

  
"Seriously, Mr Higgins."

  
"How did you find me–wait, h-how do you even know my name?"

  
Claire stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "A little birdie called, said you've been spilling secrets about me, about our time at GenDec."

  
He shook his head. Why couldn't he have peace in his own home, for five minutes–that's all he wanted. "I-I mean–the FBE…" He faltered, unable take his eyes off her, although he couldn't look her in the eyes. She sounded relatively calm, but he felt that beneath her decorum she hid anger. Almost as if she wanted to kill him. Or maybe, he hoped, have sex with him. He also remembered her being blonde, and found himself alternating between staring at her knees and her hair, fighting for enough courage to make eye-contact.

  
"Yes, your friend and I had a little chat. Agent Summers, if I recall correctly?"

  
Sam gulped and looked down to hide his bouncing throat. She had an intimidating gaze, leering at him as if he had the integrity of a daffodil that she intended to smash.

  
"I'm just here to catch up," she said. "And ask you a few simple questions about Pat Shane. Is that alright, Mr Higgins?"

  
He quivered beneath her, as if she stood three feet taller than him when in reality, she was a couple inches shorter than him. What she'd said sounded like a lie, but he couldn't just turn away Claire Waltz.

  
"Yeah, of course, I-I mean, yes, Miss Waltz. Come inside, please. Would you like something to drink?"

  
"Mr Higgins, call me Claire, and yes, thank you. My plane landed barely an hour ago."

  
She walked past him and sat on his living room couch that he knew must smell of sweat and sadness. Scurrying into the kitchen, he opened the fridge, pushed past the milk, and saw only recently purchased orange juice. He sighed and wished he had some cool alcohol to serve instead. "Miss, um, C-Claire?"

  
"Yes?"

  
"Is orange juice okay?"

  
"Have any liquor?"

  
"I'm sorry, I, uh, I just had a party. We finished the bottles I had last night. Some friends, you know, girls and stuff. It was super cool, you would've–"

  
"–Orange juice is fine, Mr Higgins," Claire said.

  
He walked back into the room with a single glass of orange juice and noticed her staring curiously at his Christmas decorations. He handed her the glass to take her focus off what was a bright, flashing sign of laziness and loneliness, but his stomach dropped as he realized he'd forgotten to pour himself a glass. He hoped she wouldn't notice, but judging by her curiously amused glance now directed at him, she had.

  
"Yeah, it was cool," he continued. "If only you were here a day sooner… It was Christmas themed–you would've thought it was cool."

  
"Yeah, I bet," she said with either a hint of disappointment or disinterested sarcasm. He assumed the latter.

  
Sitting down, first next to her on the couch, then feeling awkward, he stood to absent-mindedly inspect a nearby chair–as if something was different about it and that's why he stood. He could tell that she was enjoying her visit at the socially-inept virgin zoo and sighed, story of his life.

  
"Do you have a place where I can hang my coat?" she asked, grinning coyly and standing, clearly wanting to egg on the animals.

  
"Coat? Uh, well. Here." He held out a hand. She handed him her coat, revealing her white skin tight tank-top underneath. He looked at her then looked down. He didn't know what to do with himself–he didn't even own a coat rack. But it was Florida–no one had coat rack, and why was she even wearing a coat? It was seventy-five degrees out–perfect weather.

  
At a loss, he succumbed to tossing her coat over an unused sofa, then sat back down, blushing and hoping she wouldn't berate him.

  
"Thank you, Mr Higgins," she said, returning to her seat, leaning back and crossing her legs. The two sat in silence as she watched him curiously, and Sam couldn't believe how quickly his heart raced. He lacked the nerve to look at her, and he hadn't a single interesting thing to say. Besides, what was she waiting for? She was the one who called on him, yet she refused to speak–instead just watching him curiously. Finally, the silence got to him.

  
"How's your orange juice?" he asked.

  
She took a sip, slowly, carefully, letting the moment linger, then licked her lips. "Delicious, Mr Higgins. Thank you, you're very kind."

  
He choked out a laugh and scratched the back of his head. "Please, it was nothing."

  
He laughed again quietly, staring at his lap.

  
Claire bent low, trying to catch his eyes. "Mr Higgins?"

  
"Yeah?"

  
"I have to say–you are one of the most hospitable men I've ever met." She smiled, put her fingers on her lips, then chuckled. "Was that too forward of me? I apologize, sometimes I just can't help myself."

  
He watched her lower her gaze, as if embarrassed, and take a sip of orange juice. He turned beet red, and faced away from her in a miserable attempt to hide his cheeks. If she was playing him, which he knew she was, she was an evil genius.

  
"So Mr Higgins…"

  
"Yes?" he said, hoping for more complements.

  
"About Pat Shane?"

  
"Yes?" he pried, still hoping.

  
She tapped her foot impatiently.

  
"Tell me about him."

  
"Oh yeah, sorry!" He rubbed his hands together. "Well, where to start?"

  
"Did he really kill a man?"

  
"Yes."

  
"And he tried to kill you too?"

  
"Yes."

  
"Do you know why, Mr Higgins?"

  
"Yes. He thought we were aliens."

  
She put down her glass. "What?"

  
"Oh yeah," he smiled, glad to have something to talk about. "He thinks the aliens are already here, posing as humans."

  
Her mouth dropped slightly and her eyebrows raised.

  
"Does that seem like normal behavior to you, Mr Higgins?"

  
He laughed, and then stopped when he realized she thought him an idiot. "No, no not at all."

  
She smiled condescendingly. "Why does he think the aliens are already here, Mr Higgins?"

  
He noted hearing his name repeated, and it made him uncomfortable. "You can, um, well, y-you can call me Sam–if you want…"

  
"Okay. Sam, please. Why does he think the aliens–"

  
"Right, right! B-because he sees them. And it makes sense that they might be here. Nature of predators to spy on their prey, something like that. He's really the person you should be asking about this, not me."

  
"How do you know all of this if he kidnapped you?"

  
He was struck dumb, "I… well–"

  
"How kidnapped were you exactly, Sam?"

  
"I mean, well," Sam swallowed. "He tried to murder me!"

  
She kept staring, unsympathetic.

  
His eyes red, he finally made eye-contact. "What do you want from me?"

  
"Your silence, Sam," she replied, her tone much darker.

  
He gulped. His mouth was dry. "Are you going to kill me?"

  
She paused, then laughed, and after a moment he joined in, and they laughed together for a few seconds before she said merrily, "not unless I have to!" And she kept laughing and he followed, too afraid to stop.

  
She wiped her eyes, her smile fading instantly. "Yes, well, not unless I have to, Sam. Do you understand how serious I am?"

  
He nodded. He wanted her to leave, or have sex with him. He'd never been so conflicted. He thought about those bathroom stalls with the hole in the wall where guys stuck their junk and the girl on the other end would, well, do stuff with it. He shook his head, but the thought lingered. How perfect would that be if he had one of those on his front door, and he could lock her out? Best of both worlds. He'd need a peephole with a better perspective though.

  
He stopped the thought, his conscience kicking in. A woman was threatening to kill him and all he could think about was sex. He considered how his panicked mind had reacted earlier, to the threat of Pat, and how it reacted now, and realized that he had absolutely no useful survival instinct, and toyed with the thought that he probably deserved to die. He'd need to improve his instincts somehow, clearly he'd inherited his from his parents.

  
He shuffled awkwardly and crossed his legs, and hoped she hadn't and wouldn't lower her gaze to the crotch of his pants.

  
"I'm sorry," he said.

  
"What?"

  
"N-nothing. Um, my cheeks are red from my rosacea."

  
"That's fascinating, Sam. I don't want you talking to anyone about what happened at the Centre. Are we clear?"

  
"C-crystal."

  
"Speak up."

  
"Um. Crystal clear."

  
"Good."

  
She took a sip of her orange juice, and he thought it was odd that, in a week's time, he'd wanted to sprint screaming from his home twice.

  
She put her empty glass back on the table and licked her lips. "Thank you, Sam, you've been more than kind."

  
He nodded, but was too afraid to stand–for multiple reasons. He wished his chair had wheels or could fly so he could zoom out of his living room without having to stand, out from underneath her thousand pound gaze.

  
He scratched his head. "So uh, what have you been up to?"

  
"Kicking ass and taking names. You?"

  
"A-about the same. Good times." He smiled. She smiled back.

  
"Well, I have to get going," she said, standing up.

  
He followed–in the clear now. "Um, aside from the death threats, it was really nice seeing you again, Claire."

  
He said it genuinely, and she turned and gave him what looked like the first genuine smile of the day. "Yes. It was good, wasn't it? Take care, Sam."

  
"You too." He went in for a kiss on the cheek, but she turned quicker than he moved, so he brushed back his hair instead, playing it off in one less-than-smooth motion.

  
Claire pulled open the door to leave, Sam right behind her, and as the daylight hit their faces they simultaneously gasped at the tall figure approaching the doorway.

  
"That's a hell of a way to greet an old friend," said Pat Shane.

◊   ◊   ◊

      The son shall not be by the sins of the

     
father. The soul that sins, it shall die.

     
The mercy of the righteous shall be upon

     
him, and the treachery of the wicked shall be

     
his alone to bear. (Ezekiel 18:20)

   Agent Summers read this twice more.

  
The Genetic Decontamination Centre had this passage written with gold lettering in the stone tympanum above the door, within the arch of the entrance, and Summers couldn't understand why, but as he read it, chills electrified his skin, and he rubbed down the hairs on his arms.