The Harbinger Break (17 page)

  
The elevator shook as Summers rode it up to the seventh floor, and he regretfully assumed it was going to free fall at any second. Luckily it didn't, and as the elevator stopped on the seventh floor and the doors slid open, the picture of the crucified Jesus from downstairs popped into his mind and despite not being religious, Summers thanked him.

  
As if the apartment complex decided that one could never stop degenerating–it one-upped Summers’ initial horrified disgust by changing from the yellow tile downstairs to a moldy carpet that may have once been purple but was now a mixture of purple, blue, and green. Speckled about it were large spots of faded yellow that couldn't have been paint. Summers half-expected the carpet to squish as he stepped on it, and was thankful that it seemed dry as his foot made contact. Not that he would touch the carpet with any part of himself besides the soles of his shoes, which he made a mental note to wipe on grass once his business finished.

  
He arrived at 708 and knocked to the tune of ACDC's "You Shook Me All Night Long", a habit from when they were kids in the clubhouse behind Summers’ house.

  
Knock. Knock knock knock. Knock knock knock. Knock knock knock. Knock, knock knock.

  
He smiled as he waited for Penelope to open the door–the both of them had no idea what that song implied when they were kids.

  
"Chris Summers, you rat bastard!"

  
The door swung open and Penelope–with long, curly brown hair, a pipe hanging from his lips, wearing a torn smokers jacket, denim shorts that were once likely pants, and sneakers with the fronts cut open that exposed his toes–laughed and swooped in for an obligatory hug, which Summers returned and made a second mental note to shower afterwards.

  
"Nuts after all this time, brother!" Penelope said. "It's been ages, come in, come in! Still rocking the popped collar I see–alright!"

  
Summers wore a wind breaker and didn't bother mentioning that the collar didn't go down–his friend would know regardless that he'd bought the windbreaker solely because of that. He'd always liked that look.

  
He walked inside and was impressed, to say the least. Penelope's place was remarkably clean. Not just clean compared to the complex, but spotless–not an object out of place.

  
Penelope noticed his shocked look immediately. "Yeah, pretty clean compared to this shit hole, am I right? Adderall man, it doesn't let me sit still, so I clean."

  
"Not bad," Summers said. "So you got my message?"

  
"Yeah. So shit hit the fan," he said. "Well, I'm your guy."

  
Summers shrugged. "It's more than that. I need your help. And this is big."

  
Penelope smirked and slapped him on the shoulder. "Say no more brother, I'm in."

  
"You don't even know what I'm going to ask."

  
"Doesn't matter. I know you man, I know your morals. Whatever it is you're gonna ask is probably something that's only
perceived
as illegal in this flawed system of ours. You know I'm always down for a little government rumble. Have a seat, get comfy, make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa, brother."

  
Penelope led Summers over to the surprisingly-clean-and-lacking-any-form-of-observable-life couch.

  
"Can anyone overhear us?" Summers asked, sitting down.

  
"Nah man, the walls grow thick here."

  
"Good. First off, I need to somehow take down GenDec."

  
"Good shit," Penelope said, smiling.

  
"And I need to kill a man," Summers continued.

  
"Shit."

  
"Yep."

  
"What'd he do?"

  
"He's a killer. But he won't get caught, and if he does, he'll escape. His name is Pat Shane, and he's convinced that the aliens are already here and posing as humans. He plans on saving the world, he thinks he's a hero, which is what makes his danger unique."

  
"What makes him think that?"

  
"Think what?"

  
"The aliens are here."

  
"Speculation. He's incredibly intelligent but he's insane from that blight on Earth."

  
"GenDec?"

  
"You bet."

  
"So why does that mean he deserves death?"

  
"Because in his mind, no death toll is too high to ensure humanity's survival. I'm not doubtful of his intentions, just his means."

  
"How many people we talking?"

  
Summers shook his head. "For him? As many as it takes."

  
"How could he even accomplish that?"

  
"I'm not sure. But I've been tracking his movements. He inspires paranoia like a plague."

  
"I'm not too convinced of that, man. But I'll help, I trust your judgment–always have. But let's focus on GenDec first. I agree with you completely on that one–that place needs to go. Your Federal Bureau of Eugenics is pretty bad too, man. You say you got fired?"

  
"Yeah. Kind of the reason why we need to take out GenDec. I've seen what they do to kids first hand. It's psychological torture, as inhumane as you can get before outright baby stabbing."

  
"What kind of torture?" asked Penelope, standing and grabbing two beers from the fridge, offering one to Summers, who shook his head before responding.

  
"Electroshock therapy, food depravation, the list goes on. Done to kids who've never done a thing wrong. Even if they had, it's still torture. It's insanity regardless of how you look at it."

  
"Insanity for humanity's survival," Penelope said, returning to the couch with a beer. "I agree it's still wrong. Though I'm certain that humanity's fucked regardless, but that’s a different story."

  
"One problem at a time," said Summers.

  
Penelope opened his beer and took a swig. "So what do you need me for?"

  
"I think if the public knew what really goes down at GenDec there'd be outrage. We need to get inside and get some footage or damning documents or something."

  
Penelope scratched his chin. "That place is locked down pretty tight. Have any ideas?"

  
"I've got a couple, but they're drastic, dangerous, and highly illegal."

  
Penelope laughed. "That's the name of the game, brother! You know I'm down."

  
Summers took out his phone and uploaded a couple documents to Penelope's television, and for the next few hours they put together a plan that Penelope would later refer to as "completely retarded."

◊   ◊   ◊

   Leopold "Lee" White, $200,000 dollars richer, chuckled at his good fortune. Doing a job for the woman of his dreams–
him
, of all people–she trusted with such a nefarious plan. Her sexiness rocked his socks–he knew it, she knew it, and he knew the sexual tension between them was at an all time high. Time to prove his worth–time to show her how men with brains like hers do work.

  
He boarded the 321 from New York City to Fort Lauderdale and landed a few hours later. During the flight he studied his notes, his target, and what Claire had told him. Pat Shane was likely off somewhere inspiring paranoia in the weak-willed, hiding along the coast. Lee had already formed an ingenious plan (with a little input from Claire, of course)–to inspire a different paranoia, to convince the unintelligent weak-willed that Pat Shane was the alien he preached against so desperately.

  
He couldn't help but chuckle again–life was good. Brains verses brains, the kind of game where men of his intelligence caliber excel. Real life chess, and Lee excelled at chess. He beat his computer on the second hardest difficulty frequently, and he could even beat the computer on the hardest difficulty every now and then, only taking back one or two moves a game.

  
Yes, the deadly game of intelligence, between intellects. Claire knew who to come to–she could've chosen anyone, but she'd known that when it comes to games of intellect, he was the only one she could trust.

  
But first he had to figure out where Pat was hiding, and that wouldn't be easy. Claire said that he'd followed her north for about five miles, but that's the extent of what she observed. Not that it mattered, Lee knew better than anyone that the translucent mind of a psychopath is easy to decipher, an easy game to play. Pat might be a puzzle to others, but to him he was nothing if not the most readable opponent. Lee would simply search through reports of murders, aliens, or anything related and nearby. Something was bound to turn up, and when it did… Lee grinned. Pat Shane better watch out.

  
He pulled his rental car into a fancy hotel, checked in, and settled into his luxurious suite. He ordered room service, grinning from ear to ear as he spent the money Claire had gifted, and after a meal and shower, he plugged in his computer, logged onto the internet, and began research. Just a game of cat and mouse now, and oh how Lee loved cats.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Claire received a text message from Lee. "I'm here, setting up now. All systems go."

  
She replied, "good" and put her phone aside. She knew he was attempting humor, but she wouldn't allow herself to award his stupidity, regardless of how she currently used him.

  
It was almost too easy. Manipulating worms like Lee White never got old–in fact, having just gotten him to agree to murder for her made this manipulation extra sweet. And knowing that her gift was up in the air because of Shane did nothing but strengthen her resolve.

  
With her plan in hand, not even Lee could mess up she thought. Having him convince the town that Patches was an alien would be simple enough. She was certain that Pat was off spreading paranoia, and switching that paranoia back onto him was just a matter of timing and the right words–and manipulation. Always manipulation.

  
She sat back in her chair and expected to hear back from Lee within the week that the job was done. The relief that would wash over her, knowing that Patches was dead–she considered maybe even sleeping with Lee after all.

  
Considered it, but no way. Royalty never sleeps with peasants.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Pat Shane slit Caroline's throat first, so quickly that Cameron barely registered what had occurred before Pat swung the knife with his left hand and impaled it into Cameron's neck, sawing his blade forward until it freed and released a waterfall of blood from Cam's throat, his shocked face growing paler and paler until his lifeless head drooped forward, chin landing and resting on his chest. Charlie didn't cry out or even whimper, he remained as silent as the parking lot they were in, with uncomprehending eyes glued to Pat, sparked with an unknowable fear.

  
Pat locked eyes with the boy and couldn't look away. Just a child, he thought. But maybe not a child, and he couldn't take any chances. The car was hot, and the fog of death inside seemed to cloud his mind. But just a kid, he thought. But maybe not–maybe he's not.

  
The boy held his gaze–unblinking with an inherent innocence. The boy didn't know about knives, weapons, and death, Pat thought. He knew about the sharp thing that cut apples into slices.

  
That is–that's what the boy thought if he was actually a boy, and not an alien in disguise.

  
The boy didn't whimper, and his and Pat's eyes remained locked.

  
No, he couldn't do it, not to a kid.

  
No no no. Pat shook his head. He'd known it'd come to this and that he'd have to be uncompromising. Any hint of weakness would just open wide a door for aliens. They'd learn that humans have a weakness for children, and by not killing the boy now he might condemn all children on the planet as perfect targets to inhabit or replace, or kill–to use as means to reach an uncompromising end.

  
He'd never felt so torn, his conscious was tearing to shreds, but he knew that humanity's fate was in his hands, and his alone.

  
What if he was wrong? How much could his soul take? The blood of the innocent he'd murdered were condemning enough–but that of a child?

  
He shook his head, finally breaking eye-contact with the boy. If he was wrong about all of this he'd have signed his name on a one way ticket to a special place in hell. Even if he wasn't wrong–he'd killed innocents–that alone deserves the deepest pit of hellfire–but at least that had been to save the world.