The Harbinger Break (24 page)

  
Brandon nodded and walked across the room to stand next to Pat, facing the group by the door. "You're right," he said. "I trusted Lee too quickly. I don't trust you either, but I get the feeling that if you kill me, it'll be because you think I'm an alien, and not because I'm human."

  
"That's the hand we've been dealt," Shane said, somehow reassuringly. "So siding with Lee keeps you safe if you are one. If you aren't an alien, I've proven through my actions that you have nothing to fear from me."

  
"None of us are aliens but you!" Lee said, looking at the faces still with him for support, "and if you're the only alien here–anyone who trusts you is already dead."

  
Andy Perkins remained with Lee as did Stanley Lang and Bernard Scott. Jack Evans remained with his wife on the other side of the room along with Brandon Holt.

  
Jack glared across the room at his friend Andy wringing his hands, his poker buddy Bernard scratching his beard, and at Stanley, who was just a nice person. Jack looked at them and saw nothing but strangers–no one but people who glared back across the room, frightened to murderous intent.

  
As opposed to how they were before–every man for himself–they were now divided, and as Andy and the newcomer Lee led their party from Thomas's house, Jack wondered whether taking sides meant him safer, or brought him that much closer to his own untimely death.

Chapter 11

   Summers placed his friend into the backseat and drove to the nearest hospital. The blood from Penelope's wound drenched the black bandage even blacker, and it spread into the darkness of the seats, into deep shadows, seeming to Summers as it wasn't Penelope's blood but his soul draining from his body and down through the floor of the car. His friend blinked once as his face paled by the second, lacking the strength to shift his head from its uncomfortable, awkward tilt.

  
"Stay with me, brother," Summers said through clenched teeth as he swerved and skidded down an empty midnight road through stops and red lights.

  
Tires screeched as they turned a corner to the emergency room, and Summers shifted to park but left the key in the ignition as he ran around to the passenger seat, dragged Penelope out with adrenaline-fueled strength and carried him past the automatic glass doors, into the ER's triage waiting room, and left his friend bleeding on white glossy floors. The nurse behind the large blue desk looked at him, shocked as he shrugged an apology and bailed, just as the security guard stood from his stool.

  
He dove back into the car, slammed on the gas, and with a roar of the engine, fled the scene, panicking as fear and guilt corrupted him. He reached back and grabbed the folder–the reason why his friend lay dying on that hospital floor and a second man lay dead in his office.

  
Summers wanted to puke at the thought of Berry, blood hemorrhaging in his crushed skull. His futile attempts to remind himself that he had no choice did nothing to quell his guilt and angst, even though Berry was the reason his friend's life slowly bled away now. Except that wasn't true, and did nothing to ease his guilt, because
he
was the reason Penelope lay dying.

  
Summers smashed his hands on his steering wheel and violently shook his head.

  
How did that happen? Penelope must not have realized that he'd woken Berry while gathering his prints. Or maybe Berry had awoken by chance after they had left and he'd realized his keys were missing.

  
What a stupid, blotched plan, Summers thought. They should've strategized better, they should've had a back-up plan. For God's sake they should've locked the door to his office once they'd entered.

  
It was too late now, and Summers calmed himself with a few deep breaths. Without looking back, he grabbed Sam's folder and opened it in his lap, pulling over in an empty parking lot about six miles from the hospital.

  
He read page after page, which undeniably exposed GenDec as having cheated its preliminary tests and thus cheated its results. Then Summers thought back to his first conversation with Higgins. Something he'd said struck Summers as strange. At the time, he'd just blown it off, but now–what was it?

  
He pictured the man's tan, red-tinged face and saw his lips move.

  
"Then you don't know that much about my past."

  
That's what Higgins had said. Summers nodded and shut his eyes. So Higgins knew about his past, he knew that he'd been at GenDec illegally. But why?

  
Summers turned the page. There it was, his history:

  
"Sam Higgins, adopted, taken from the custody of the United States Coast Guard. Parents’ illegal immigration attempt neutralized. Parents killed en route from Cuba to United States when Higgins was a toddler. Guaranteed an American citizenship on completion of GenDec program."

  
Summers sighed. So Sam was Cuban, and Daniel Berry had his fingers in more pies than Summers had even imagined. He was curious enough to confront Higgins about the matter, but not before he'd used the information to compromise GenDec.

  
Summers checked his watch. It'd been an hour since he dropped Penelope off.

  
Starting his car, he began driving back towards the hospital–by that time, medical personnel should've stopped the bleeding, although they would have also called the police.

  
Well, regardless, it was time to discharge Penelope Plum early.

   Summers donned the Physicians Assistant student lab coat and wig for safe measure, and entered the hospital through triage towards the front desk.

  
In his bag, Penelope had organized what he called 'The Con Kit,' which was filled with costumes and instructions on how to break into pretty much anywhere. Summers read the instructions for the hospital and prepared to repeat word for word what Penelope had instructed.

  
But the guard spoke first.

  
"Student?" he asked as Summers approached.

  
"Uh, yes."

  
"You're two hours early. Shift doesn't start until seven."

  
"Couldn't sleep."

  
The guard laughed. "You heard about the shooting, didn't you?"

  
Summers chuckled. The guard grinned. "Alright get in there," he said. "The charge nurse is Arlianne."

  
Summers nodded and smiled as the guard hit the buzzer and let him through.

  
He walked down the hall and into the ER. There were people on beds against walls around the hallway, and on one of the beds he saw Penelope.

  
Hospital procedure kept more critical patients or the patients requiring isolation in the rooms. They kept more stable patients or patients requiring supervision on the hallway beds.

  
The nurses scrambled back and forth as a constant universal beeping threatened to drill a hole through Summers’ brain. Blazing fluorescent lights made some of the hallway patients look pale and ghost-like. Penelope had his eyes closed, asleep, as a police officer stood by his bed, looking bored and somewhat annoyed.

  
He had to create a distraction, and quickly–hoping Penelope was either actually asleep or had the tact to keep faking it. The police officer standing by had his hand resting on his pistol. He had a constant, slight leg twitch–a sign that he was bored and restless. Which was good.

  
Summers knew enough about hospitals from his time on the force, and came up with a plan inspired by something he'd once seen.

  
First he had to find the right patient–and where better to start off than at bed one? He entered, but immediately left, finding there just an old woman. Beds two and three were the same. But bed four was perfect. A young drugged out guy lay, possibly sleeping, likely a recent overdose.

  
Perfect. Summers knew from experience that a majority of these patients didn't want to be in the hospital, but some purposely admitted themselves to get an intravenous line, as they couldn't find a vein themselves and an IV was perfect for certain drugs.

  
He entered the room as the kid blinked awake. The kid's eyes were bloodshot, his body frail and his face jagged.

  
"Hey," Summers said.

  
"Hey," the kid replied.

  
"We're discharging you. You ready to go?"

  
The kid looked stunned. "You're discharging me?"

  
"Yep. Grab your things."

  
The kid quickly hopped out of bed. Summers saw him look at the IV in his arm, then hide it, quickly covering it with his sweatshirt. He probably thought the hospital was making a mistake, but was more than happy to leave.

  
The kid eyed Summers skeptically. "So I'm free to go?"

  
"Yep."

  
"You sure?"

  
"That's what they told me."

  
The kid maintained his skeptical look, but gathered his things and left the room as Summers followed. But as the kid turned the corner Summers went in the opposite direction. Now he had to wait.

  
These addicts usually knew better than anyone how to sneak out of a hospital, and this kid seemed no different. Soon, he'd made his way out the back door without a single nurse or doctor saying a word about it. In more dilapidated areas such as this, ER nurses were usually too busy to notice anything, especially on nights like this one–regardless of how obvious to Summers it seemed.

  
He waited a minute and then walked into and out of the kid's room.

  
"The patient in room four is missing," he said to the nearest nurse.

  
The nurse raised an eyebrow at Summers, then walked to the room and peeked inside. She immediately returned to the hallways and with alarm told the police officer guarding Penelope. The officer nodded, barely hiding a grin, and left the bedside to search. A few male orderlies, paramedics, and nurses followed outside.

  
Acting fast, Summers approached Penelope and shook him, and he opened his eyes immediately.

  
"Nice one brother," he mouthed weakly.

  
He stood from the bed amid the chaos. The color returned to his face, but he now wore a hospital gown and he was hooked up to an IV.

  
Summers walked with Penelope to the bathroom and gave him the PA coat and the pair of pants he currently wore. Underneath, Summers wore scrubs, so he was still in disguise.

  
In seconds, Penelope was dressed and they left the bathroom. The ER still bustled from the recent addict escapee, and the awake, screaming, demented patients had the remaining nurses sprinting from bed to bed, back and forth.

  
An old woman grabbed Summers’ arm as he walked by and cried, "my leg hurts–I was a nurse–Please! I need more morphine!"

  
Summers nodded and told her he'd be right back. But he kept walking, knowing that any nurse who might have noticed the pair would think they were going outside to join the search.

  
But once out of the hospital–from the same exit the addict took, no less–they kept walking, keeping to shadows, and eventually made it to the car.

  
Penelope gave Summers a weak smile, a "I feel like shit, but well done," kind of look. A moment later, they were in the car, out of the parking lot, and hurtling down the road as a sliver of the sun peeked over the horizon.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Sam listened to the recording on his phone again as he drove from the bakery, trying to wrap his head around the level of shit the country was in, which he decided was code black.

  
So everyone was poisoned and nobody could do anything about it. And what, exactly, was he then supposed to do? He wasn't even sure if his American citizenship could survive the spotlight. The last thing he needed was his identity under scrutiny.

  
He could always write to the mayor again–

  
Wait.
The mayor.

  
Sam's blood turned cold. The mayor was found dead not long after Sam had sent his initial inquiry. What if the mayor had received his letter then out of curiosity investigated, which led to his death?

  
Sam shivered. Certainty and fear were gloves stained by bloodied nails, and his pulse pounded double-time. There was no shadow of a doubt–it was no coincidence that the mayor was found dead soon after Sam's letter. And as soon as word spread that Sam possessed undeniable evidence of the food being poisoned–he'd be next.

  
Would George out him? Sam couldn't know. He needed to hide–he needed protection.

  
His ignition roared and tires screeched as he reversed from Arlow Bakery's parking lot. Heading east towards the I-95 byway, he wondered who he could trust. Definitely not the police, which was the reason he took the byway as opposed to the highway or skyway. The two latter were monitored, and Sam realized with a hint of regret that he'd soon need to abandon his trusty Civic and obtain a new car, one unregistered to his name.

  
So who could he trust? He had no friends or family, and his list of acquaintances was as short as his list of known survival skills.

  
He thought first of the Special Agent Summers. Could he be trusted? He seemed nice enough, sort of conceited, but maybe that was just Sam reflecting. No, it was out of the question. He was a federal agent–none could be trusted.

  
How about Pat? Sam shook his head–hell no–he'd rather die then crawl back to that lunatic. The whole reason he'd gone off and investigated the food was solely because he wanted to outshine Pat–to claim the hero title Pat desired. Crawling back to him now and sharing his glory was out of the question.

  
Could he trust Claire? Of course, aside from the fact that she already wanted him dead? Sam sighed–thinking of her only depressed him, and the fact that she wouldn't mind his death was nothing if not hurtful.