The Harbinger Break (8 page)

  
Sam nodded. Not a bad plan, he thought. Plus, he'd finally be free. Home free from his kidnapping and his life could finally get back to normal. He wondered why Pat was being so apologetic, and closed his eyes, inwardly relieved. But then he felt the icy touch of metal on his exposed chest, and his grin vanished.

  
"Again, I'm real sorry bud. I gotta sell it."

  
He slashed.

  
Blood spurted from Sam's chest and he cried out. Pat sliced him seven more times in quick succession, and muffled Sam's screams with his hand–with every slash came another apology. Seconds later, Sam whimpered as the deep cuts on his flesh gushed blood that covered his skin like a silk sheet.

  
"Wait a few seconds, then cry out for help," Pat said.

  
He ran from the room. Sam waited two seconds and then screamed and cried and shouted. Moments later a team of cops ran in, flashlights swarming, and entered the bathroom. The first one to enter knelt down.

  
"You're safe now. Where is he?"

  
Sam considered turning him in, telling the officers that Pat was probably underneath the bed, but decided against it. He'd seen too much that supported Pat's theories, and just because he didn't want to be involved didn't mean he wanted to hinder him.

  
"He left," Sam said, his tears selling his act. "He heard the sirens and bailed. I heard him open and slam the door, just a few minutes ago. He can't have gotten very far–you can still catch him!"

  
The other cops ran out immediately, yelling orders and repeating what Sam had said. Two medics rushed in.

  
"Can you walk?" the first medic asked as the other checked his pulse and swabbed the blood on his chest.

  
"Yeah," Sam responded. The medics unbound his feet, neck, and hands, and scanned him quickly as he stood. They walked him out of the bathroom and onto their stretcher. Strapping him in, they rolled him out of the room and carried him down the steps to the ambulance.

  
A cop with a notepad approached as the medics put copious amounts of gauze, antiseptic, and pressure on Sam's wounds.

  
"Mr Higgins, can I ask you a couple questions?"

  
"Yeah," Sam said, then grimaced, immediately regretting his affirmative answer.

  
"Thank you. You're very brave. So, tell me what happened? What's the last thing you remember?"

  
Sam took a deep breath. The aching and burning of the cuts on his body helped him sell his anguish. A sudden thought amused him, and he hid a creeping smile. He pictured the cops spreading out to find Pat, all the while their target hid underneath a bed in the room upstairs. It was kind of funny, in a sick way.

  
"He attacked me, almost drowned me, then kidnapped me. He thought I was an alien, and had been torturing me the past few days, trying to get me to admit it."

  
"Who's he?"

  
"Pat Shane."

  
The cop nodded and jotted a note.

  
"That's enough for now. Thank you, Mr Higgins." The cop patted one of the medics on the back, and they loaded Sam into the ambulance and flew him to the emergency room.

  
Ambulances were the first vehicles to be upgraded to ground/air thrust compatibility, and Sam found flying via positive thrust soothing to say the least. He fell asleep during the flight–the events of the evening had been traumatic, albeit much differently than how law enforcement suspected.

◊   ◊   ◊

  
Excerpt from Pope John Paul II's "Redemptor Hominis", May 4th, 1979. Part 12, The Church's Mission and Human Freedom:

  
In this unity in mission, which is decided principally by Christ himself, all Christians must find what already unites them, even before their full communion is achieved. This is apostolic and missionary unity, missionary and apostolic unity. Thanks to this unity we can together come close to the magnificent heritage of the human spirit that has been manifested in all religions, as the Second Vatican Council's Declaration Nostra Aetate says. It also enables us to approach all cultures, all ideological concepts, all people of good will, all life by God. We will approach them with the esteem, respect and discernment that since the time of the Apostles has marked the missionary attitude, the attitude of the missionary.

  
…

  
The mission is never destruction, but instead is a taking up and fresh building, even if in practice there has not always been full correspondence with this high ideal. And we know well that the conversion that is begun by the mission is a work of grace, in which man must fully find himself again.

  
For this reason the Church in our time attaches great importance to all that is stated by the Second Vatican Council in its Declaration on Religious Freedom, both the first and the second part of the document. We perceive intimately that the truth revealed to us by God imposes on us an obligation that man must now transcend. We have, in particular, a great sense of responsibility for this truth. By Christ's institution the Church is its guardian and teacher, having been endowed with a unique assistance of the Holy Spirit in order to guard and teach it in its most exact integrity. In fulfilling this mission, united with man, we look towards Christ himself, the first evangelizer, and also towards his Apostles, martyrs and confessors, to give us strength, through space, in our obligation to God.

  
…

  
Jesus Christ meets the man of every age, including our own, with the same words: "You will know the truth, and the truth will make you free."

Chapter 3

   Special Agent Chris Summers crashed onto his couch, kicked off his shoes and turned on the television. He sighed, leaning back, glad to finally be home–regardless of how run-down home was.

  
He glanced around his one bedroom flat. Wooden floors concealed by a cheap brown rug with a green leaf pattern, a lightly torn brown couch, an unmade bed, and large speakers against the wall by the window were proof enough that someone lived there. He'd grabbed the speakers at a garage sale, five bucks each, eight for the set–not bad after he fixed them, and he kept his rock n' roll disks stacked on top. His rarely-used television sat on the rug across from his coffee table, and beside his couch on the wall hung a painting of some odd colored mountains that the previous owner left. He liked how it looked so he'd left it.

  
His cellphone rang, and he sighed at his relaxation interrupted. It was the office. Probably Paige.

  
"Summers speaking."

  
"Agent Summers."

  
He recognized her soft voice immediately.

  
"Hey Paige."

  
"How's the case?"

  
He sighed. "It's coming along… Actually, I just
scratched a disk
. I need a second." He added a slow inflection to 'scratched a disk'.

  
"Alright, call me back."

  
"Will do."

  
He hung up. A moment later, she called back, personal number this time. He answered.

  
"Paige."

  
"Hey handsome."

  
"What's going on?"

  
"Barnes has been up my ass these past few days, wondering what's the–"

  
"Can you say that differently?"

  
"What differently?"

  
He sighed again. She continued.

  
"Alright fine. He's been down my throat."

  
"Not better."

  
She laughed. "I've been covering for you Chris, but we need a progress report or he's going to transfer you."

  
"Gotchya."

  
"What have you got?"

  
"I've spoken to a few known associates of Shane's. This case is proving just as difficult as we thought it'd be. He's psychotic, but the question of nature verses nurture is as heart of it as usual. Of those from GenDec whom I've spoken, it seems he's been
conditioned
to insanity. Except I can't paint that picture. He's committed heinous crimes–he deserves whatever punishment he receives, but from what I can tell, he'd been tortured to submission in that direction."

  
"You sure?"

  
"I can't be, Paige. I need to see GenDec. Can you pull some strings upstairs?"

  
"I'll see what I can do. Give me the formal report in five."

  
"Alright. Thanks."

  
"Don't mention it."

  
He hung up and sat back in the sofa, thinking about what he would say. Pat Shane was, by the standard, crazy–but also a hero, at least in his own mind.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Claire Waltz's plane landed in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, a little after three in the afternoon. She wasn't thrilled to return this close to GenDec, but she had to find Higgins. She wanted–no–
needed
to find out what he remembered.

  
She rented a black sedan, took the Skyway to Pompano, then drove to 1312 Red Gable Drive, where her IT friend Lee had located a plausible Sam Higgins.

  
Lee was also in love with her, which was useful.

  
She parked the car and approached the pink little bungalow, knocking twice on the door. Turning around, facing the street, she studied her nails, analyzing the perfection of her French manicure while waiting for a response, which seemed to be taking a while.

  
She grimaced. How degrading was this?
Her
, calling on someone else… as if. But this was personal, and she couldn't just call a favor and send anyone. He might know things. Things she'd hoped nobody remembered and had in stock to share.

  
There was no answer, so she knocked again. Lee had called her earlier, told her that he was alive and had been rescued over a day before. Plus, a silver Honda Accord sat in the driveway, so she knew he had to be home. What was keeping him? Had Patches come back and done something?

  
Finally, she heard rustling inside the home. Someone had their face planted upon the eye-hole of the door. A second later, the door opened, and a large, tan, seemingly blushing man appeared.

◊   ◊   ◊

   He remembered running, but the rest was fuzz and froth in Pat's mind, slowly settling.

  
A man in a duster jacket entered the screened in area, Pat looked–but he vanished–nothing there. Looking down at his hands, Pat twiddled his thumbs, or maybe they were twiddling themselves. But they were also bleeding, and he didn't know how or why. What was happening? Think.

  
"THINK GODDAMMIT!"

  
A voice–who? He spun, but nothing. Ghosts were having parties in the corners of his eyes–if he looked they vanished. Some had guns, others were taunting him, silently screaming, rushing towards him, bleeding tears. He looked and they disappeared. Cackling, laughing–or were those crickets?

  
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BACK YARD!"

  
Pat's pupils smashed back and forth in slow motion, the pendulum of a grandfather clock, striking twelve every second. But they saw nothing–observed no one. He was forcing his brain to think. (I need to eat), where? (where am I?) He remembered running. He knew pi to the 100th digit, and attempted to recite it, to help him focus. "Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine seven nine three point one four one five nine two six five three point one four one fine [no] too sick [too]."

  
It was no use. He'd run all night, hiding from the light. Nothing to drink, nothing to eat. He sat huddled in the corner of someone's backyard, a backyard his subconscious clicked at, pointing at (waitaminute … nevermind) as he held his knees to his chest and glanced around, wondering how he'd arrived wherever he was.

  
A heavy shutter smashed in his mind, followed by a high pitched whine–and a blinding light engulfed his vision, blocking out everything else. A police officer with a flashlight appeared. Pat raised his hand to his face, casting a deep shadow along his eyes.

  
He blinked once to adjust–but with that blink the cop, along with the backyard, vanished.

  
The world changed. Instead of the screened-in patio at night, now the sun was in his eyes–he was in a playground, children spinning and singing, their voices echoing inside his head, their laughter going on and on for an eternity. He lowered his hand and glanced around, but he couldn't recognize this place. So then he–

  
Blink.

  
A blaring horn deafened him. His hands shot up to the sides of his head, covering–defending his ears. The night sky threatened to crush him, and he stood in the middle of the road–a truck headed right for him, blinding him with its headlights. He stumbled back, eyes wide, mouth agape and–

  
Blink.

  
The shutter smashed again. A camera? "Great smile. One more picture–and this time, Patches–no funny faces."

  
Blink.

  
A hum resounded, like the inside of a dryer–metallic spinning–but parallel to the ground, flooring upwards.

  
He was laying on some kind of sheet metal operating table. A bright light attempted to blind him, illuminating the fright on his face, and hands groped and prodded him. Hands–but those were no ordinary hands.

  
Blink. Those hands were long, and that wasn't a normal skin color. Blink. They were going for his eyes. Blink. Blink. They were scratching his eyes! Blink blink blink blink–

  
But nothing–trapped-something cold and metallic held open his eyes. "What do you want from me!" Pat screamed.

  
They (whoever
they
were) looked all around–the sclera of their eyes, so large and yellow, their pupils, so black, pin points, their eyes were moving too much, and too quickly, bragging–his couldn't move–but his hands! They didn't restrain his hands!

  
He lifted them to his face, ripped off the apparatus, and sat up. They scurried backwards. No mouths, but they could talk. "Take it easy, son, we're not going to hurt you."

  
"Where am I?"

  
Blink.

  
He was back in the screened-in area of someone's backyard, surrounded by three cops, an old man, and a Great Dane.

  
Blink.

  
The operating room again. The metallic table was nearby, and on it sat a knife. He picked it up.

  
"Where am I!?"

  
"Son, if you keep screaming you'll wake the neighbors!"

  
He lunged, tackling the nearest big eyes, knife poised. He stabbed.

  
Blink.

  
Blood spurted from the tiny body of a child. Children screamed.

  
Blink.

  
A police officer, bleeding on the ground.

  
"Get him off me! 10-24, officer down!"

  
Blink.

  
Long fingers all over his body, not gripping but rubbing, his mind was on fire, metal all around him, he stabbed the big eyes again–lost and scared.

  
Without warning, his body hovered into the air, froze, then flew backwards.

  
Blink.

  
He flew through the air, hitting an encampment and rolling down a hill. The truck screeched to a halt, blood painted on its bumper and windshield.

  
The driver stormed out of the truck. "Fuck buddy, are you nuts? Charging at a truck? What the fuck!" He bent over Pat. "Shit… Oh please don't be dead, this ain't my fucking fault!"

  
Pat couldn't move, his legs and arms wouldn't budge–he was paralyzed.

  
Blink.

  
Cops were holding him down. One cop far from Pat was screaming. "Don't die on me, Franky boy! It's just a flesh wound! Do you hear me? A flesh wound!" A police officer had his hands pressed down on the bloody chest of another. Blood soaked the ground, so much blood, it drenched the whole backyard, too much blood.

  
Blink.

  
Children with inhuman strength were all around him, growling and crying, holding him down, torrents of mucous dripping from every orifice. Pat jerked, but couldn't break free.

  
Blink.

  
"Hey buddy, you okay?" a voice whispered, echoing around the blades of grass. Woods. No, it was the truck driver again. Something howled, concealed in the forest. Gray clouds raced in front of the moon.

  
Blink.

  
Cops holding his arms and legs, the Great Dane standing above him, growling, drooling.

  
Blink.

  
The street at night, but something felt different–maybe it was the wind. He was alone in an intersection, old buildings surrounded him, to his right was a park, beyond the park a lake. A few people, couples with arms around each other spoke quietly, whispering and laughing. At him? Where was he? Something was wrong. Something was throwing and tumbling his mind. He had one concise thought, one goal–he needed Sam. He had to find Sam.

  
Last he saw, they were loading Sam into an ambulance.

  
An ambulance. Walking down the street in a daze, too scared to blink, Pat stumbled onward.

  
His ears perked. A siren. Sam? He followed the noise, first trotting, then sprinting. Down the street, yes, lights, what luck–maybe he had only been out for a few hours, maybe that was Sam?

  
He looked up at the sky and saw it, the ambulance, wheels retracted, thrusting through the low fog. It approached, landing somewhere near him. He sprinted towards it as it descended. It was landing so near, what luck!