The Harbinger Break (13 page)

  
Good people who made mistakes, who acted in a manner which their moral compass designated was in the right, who did their best and fell short, paid for their crimes. On the other hand, bad people who understood the flaws of the system could cheat it and never atone.

  
Summers knew Shane wasn't morally corrupt–he simply perceived his world as it revealed itself to him–as a place of fear and paranoia, perpetually fighting and losing against an invisible foe.

  
Society advanced laws, technology, and punishment in every direction aside from internally. They simply over-compensated for non-existent technology.

  
If a man's conscience could be quantified, would it be possible to know if a person was morally just or corrupt before being deemed so by their actions? And if that was possible, could the corrupt be preemptively punished? Could the just be given leeway? How far from the soul did the almost-parallel lines of crime and punishment eventually cross?

  
Even the most honest man's moral line couldn't possibly run completely parallel to the laws. Society's flaw was that its moral compass spun in a magnet shell where "good" and "evil" were a matter of perspective, with thousands of true norths. The fact of the matter was that the bad weren't the only ones found guilty of crossing society's guidelines of good, but rehabilitating a man's character before he crossed, based on society's–no,
humanity's
guidelines, would likely crush the foundation of those guidelines.

  
"AND AS WE WIND ON DOWN THE ROAD"

  
That singular moment when Summers realized for the first time that his values and the laws did not run parallel was an earth shattering realization for him, and at that moment he knew what he had to do.

  
"OUR SHADOWS TALLER THAN OUR SOUL"

  
He had seen first hand what GenDec did to those kids, not as a morally corrupt facility, but as an over-compensation built from paranoia. Shane wasn't corrupt. Misguided, yes, horribly misguided, but not corrupt.

  
"THERE WALKS A LADY WE ALL KNOW"

  
But if a man strapped with explosives was running at a building filled with innocent people, you have to stop the man, regardless of who strapped and armed the explosives and sent the man running.

  
"WHO SHINES WHITE LIGHT AND WANTS TO SHOW"

  
Summers let his arm hang out the window as the breeze wrestled innocently with his hand. And as he absorbed the resistance of the world, he came to terms with two facts, two causes that gave fuel to a burning mind, regardless of how they diverged from the line of society's laws: That he would end the Genetic Decontamination Centre, and that Pat Shane had to die.

  
"AND IF YOU LISTEN VERY HARD

  
THE TUNE WILL COME TO YOU AT LAST

  
WHEN ALL IS ONE AND ONE IS ALL

  
TO BE A ROCK AND NOT TO ROLL."

◊   ◊   ◊

  
DOOMSDAY CLOCK - 1 MINUTE TO MIDNIGHT - 1990 Bulletin Excerpt:

  
"The lack of communication by our extra-terrestrial solar-system guests, being technologically outmatched by seemingly millennia, the endless manufacturing of nuclear weaponry by all nations in a perilously unstable alliance, and the paranoia only promoted by nation leaders takes life on Earth to such a frangible degree that the end should arrive not only any day now, but any minute now. Thus, we moved the Doomsday Clock to one minute to midnight."

Part 2

It Ran with Terror and with Cunning Crept

Chapter 7

  
Cameron Thomas guarded his white two-story colonial castle like a knight, ready and willing to lay down his life for his wife, Caroline, and son, Charlie. Not a member of the Thomas family slept more than an hour or two at a time since the UFO spotting three days back.

  
In his anxiety, Cameron would pinch the little fibers of his handsome mustache between two fingernails and pull them out, one by one, not realizing the collection of hairs growing on the kitchen table until Caroline would walk by and slap his hand and scold him. "This is why you have those pimples under your nose, Cam."

  
He didn't care about the pimples or his mustache. He cared about her, and silently prayed that his Winchester could blast a hole into the aliens, should they return with a vengeance.

  
Brandon Holt and Jack Evans stopped by every couple hours, and the three men discussed and revised defense and attack strategies.

  
Brandon Holt was tall, taller than both Cameron and Jack, with a large nose and chopped hair. He had a tendency to rub his nose with the back of his thumb, and often did so before interrupting someone or making a point.

  
Jack Evans was about the same height as Cameron, with short, curly hair and glasses. He followed Brandon into Cameron's home rubbing the back of his neck.

  
Cameron went through his notes for the hundredth time. The UFO seemed to be as large as a small house. The three men had gone over this detail multiple times, but due to the blinding light and the late hour, their memories contradicted and were unreliable. But they agreed they could expect at least two dozen aliens, which meant the only way they'd stand a chance was if each of man could pick off eight.

  
"Don't expect help from any of the other men," Holt insisted, rubbing his nose with his thumb. "Sure, they may say they'll fight, but when it comes down to it, they'll be the first high-tailing it out of here. And I don't blame them."

  
"What about Mitch Anderson?" asked Jack Evans.

  
Holt shook his head. "The guy's aggressive, sure. But he has no family here, and no one to fight for."

  
"That's you too," said Jack softly.

  
"True, but you guys are my friends."

  
"Exactly," said Cameron. "Don't forget that there's more than just our families at stake here."

  
Jack looked less than enthusiastic, and Cameron looked at him, eyebrow raised. But he knew why Jack looked apprehensive. Brandon and himself were versed in firearms, albeit from hunting, meanwhile Jack had never fired a weapon in his life.

  
Jack was just a real-estate developer–the developer of this small somewhat-religious community, and Cameron knew he wanted nothing more than to live the simple life with his wife.

  
"You expect me to take out eight aliens?" Jack asked.

  
"You'd better," said Holt.

  
"I've never fired a gun in my life!"

  
Cameron shrugged. "Well, better get learning." He turned to Brandon. "You mind showing him the ropes?"

  
Brandon looked Jack up and down and grinned. "Not at all. Let's go, Jack," he said, slapping his back roughly then leading him out.

  
Cameron remained at his kitchen table after they left. He talked bravely when around his friends, but in all honesty being one of the runners sounded pretty good, especially for his family's sake. Jack Evans and Brandon Holt had no kids. Brandon didn't even have a wife–he was just a young successful guy who'd found faith a few years back in a near-death experience. Cameron had a kid, a little boy, Charlie, and if the opportunity to flee arose, Cameron knew he wouldn't hesitate.

   He hadn't moved since Brandon and Jack left almost an hour ago, the collection of mustache fibers grew larger by the minute, and Cameron's vigilance sitting guard wore thin.

  
What if the aliens came while they were out training? What if he was attacked–what if they already were? His friends might have already been killed. Cameron tried to shake the thought off him but it stuck like a thorn.

  
He couldn't handle sitting guard any longer, he had to go out and find them. There was no chance in hell he'd be able to fight off twenty-four aliens on his own.

  
He stood and adjusted his parka. It wasn't cold out–the weather was pleasant, considering, but since childhood he became irrationally cold when nervous. Grabbing his Winchester from the umbrella bin by the front door, Cameron left his home and began walking down the street, towards the woods opposite the byway.

  
The air was calm and the road quiet, which gave his anxious mind leeway to paranoia. A growl rumbled behind him from an approaching vehicle. He glanced to his right as a heavy engine's thunder amplified.

  
An ambulance raced by, so suddenly that he barely had time to register the incident. Cars didn't often travel the byway, but when they did it wasn't uncommon for them to take left at the fork instead of continuing right when traveling north. But then again, that was an ambulance–be it one unfamiliar to their county.

  
He watched it head towards the woods, then stop abruptly and U-turn in Jack Evans's driveway. Cameron felt himself grow nervous, and increased his pace, gun raised, and as the ambulance approached he raised his free hand and flagged the driver down, Winchester in plain sight.

  
The driver parked the ambulance and stepped out, then walked around the hood, approaching Cameron cautiously.

  
"What are you doing here?" Cameron asked.

  
The man, well over six feet, dark hair, pale skin, and intimidating eyes glared back at Cameron, brow narrowed.

  
"You treat all lost, out-of-towners like this?"

  
Cameron didn't lower his gun. He eyed the man, struck aback somewhat by his good-looks and domineering presence.

  
"What's your name, guy?" Cameron asked.

  
"Shane. Yours?"

  
"Cameron Thomas. That your ambulance?"

  
Cameron watched the stranger appraise him before responding. "You a cop?"

  
"No. Just a concerned citizen with a loaded rifle."

  
"Then how I got this ambulance isn't anybody's business beside my own. I suppose I should've kept right at the fork, but I've been driving through the night and must've become disoriented."

  
Cameron searched the newcomer's eyes. That's exactly what he'd theorized happened, but considering recent circumstances, wasn't about to let a stranger off that easily. "A likely story…"

  
"What are you saying?"

  
"Guy–Shane–are you aware that not three days ago this village had a confrontation with a UFO?"

  
Cameron saw the stranger's eyes light up with a dangerous, curious glow.

  
"No I wasn't aware of that. You sure it was a UFO?"

  
"Bright lights, larger than a house, horrible angry noise, plus, it seemed to appear out of nowhere. There's no mistaking it, it was a UFO."

  
"Where is it now?"

  
"It left. We've all been on edge, waiting for it to return."

  
"What makes you think it hasn't already returned?"

  
Cameron paused, confused. "Well, we would've seen it."

  
"Assuming they returned they same way they left."

  
"What?"

  
"Mr Thomas, I've researched this malicious aspect of aliens more thoroughly than any man alive. And I can with, utmost certainty, assure you that those aliens you saw three days ago are not only still here, but living amongst you."

  
Cameron's fear magnified. "Living amongst us?"

  
The newcomer nodded. "Yes. My colleagues and I believe that the aliens have been hiding on Earth for quite some time, spying on humanity, to learn from us before… well."

  
"Before what?"

  
"Before annihilating us."

  
The professional manner in which the stranger spoke set and hammered the nail of fear inside Cameron, and a singular thought erupted.

  
"My wife! My kid! I left them alone!"

  
He turned and ran back towards his house and the stranger followed, knife in hand. Cameron hammered open his front door and sprinted inside.

  
"Caroline! Charlie!"

  
His wife jumped from the sofa, hands raised in an inexperienced fighter's stance, which looked as if she was about to grab her hair.

  
"What the fuck, Cameron! I'd finally fallen asleep!"

  
Cameron looked back and forth rapidly. "Is Charlie okay? Have you checked up on him recently?"

  
"Five minutes ago. Cam, what's gotten into you?"

  
He shuffled sheepishly as relief poured over him. "Sorry, honey. Just checking up on you, making sure nothing bad happened while I was gone."

  
"You were gone for six minutes, Cam, for God's sake." She turned to Shane. "Who's that?"

  
Shane stepped forward and bowed his head. "Pat Shane. Sorry about the excitement ma'am."

  
Caroline shook her head. "It's not a problem Mr Shane. It was for our safety after all."

  
"Actually, it's Professor Shane."

  
"Professor?"

  
"Yes ma'am. Doctorate in theoretical extra-terrestrial bio-intelligence. I'm here to help."

  
"It's true," Cameron said. "Studies the aliens. Either way, we need to drastically change our plans."

  
"What for?"

  
Cameron turned to Shane, who took the initiative.

  
"Ma'am, I have reason to believe that the aliens your town spotted three days ago not only never left, but have taken up disguises and are living amongst you as we speak."

  
Caroline's shock quickly gave way to the sharp blade of reasoning, a trait that Cameron fell in love with the moment he'd witnessed it.

  
"Okay," she said, grabbing the handgun on the coffee table. "What do you need me to do?"

◊   ◊   ◊

   Summers placed his badge, ID, and issued gun holster on Barnes's desk as Barnes gave him the up-down. He knew how he looked. Disheveled, unkempt, hair uncombed, shirt untucked and still bloodied, tie askew–he used to run this town, now he was its seedy grime. Or at least that's how he felt.

  
"Summers," Barnes said, sitting behind his desk, phone in hand.

  
"Barnes," Summers replied, hand in pocket, averting his gaze from his badge and other once validating objects on Barnes's desk.

  
"You look like shit."

  
Summers nodded. "I'll bet."

  
"We'll get this sorted out. I'll keep in touch." He stood and extended his hand. "Take care."

  
Summers reached across the desk and shook it. "You too."

  
Retracting his hand, he gripped the lapel of his coat and left Barnes's office. As a field agent, luckily he didn't have to go through the indignity of clearing out a desk, but at the same time, walking disgracefully past colleagues’ sympathetic faces only increased his depression.

  
He'd never loved the work–but the idea that he was fighting for the good guys, bringing justice to an uncompromising world, was something he took pride in. He had to remind himself that he wasn't leaving the fight for justice–he was just switching teams.

  
He walked towards Paige's desk, and his eyes locked on her big n' hazels for a moment. She watched him approach and he knew she fought a silent desperate battle to lock eyes with him again, but looking at her for even a second longer would've turned his campaigning soldier mindset to depthless sadness. He couldn't bear it–anything but sympathy.

  
He was about to leave the office when a voice he recognized, one he hated, called out behind him.

  
"Chris Summers, I don't believe it."