The Harbinger Break (25 page)

  
Who else was there? Could he survive on his own? Maybe he could.

  
He approached a red light. In the lane left of his was a police cruiser. Sam slowed to a stop but pulled slightly ahead of the officer, so their windows weren't aligned.

  
What if the cops already knew? No–that would be impossible–that is, unless George had informed them. Sam felt his heart through his chest and was certain he'd have a heart attack at any moment.

  
The cop pulled forward, aligning the two vehicle's windows. Sam stared straight ahead, but could feel the officer's gaze piercing the side of his head. Was it suspicious not to look? Should he look and smile? How would a normal person react in this situation?

  
He couldn't resist the urge, and turned his head.

  
The officer stared right back at him. The two locked eyes. Sam instinctively turned his head back forwards.

  
The light turned green, finally, and Sam shot away, maybe a little too hard, but at least he was home free.

  
Or, maybe not. The cruiser's lights suddenly lit up and Sam cringed at the unmistakable "bwoowoop" of the siren.

  
A twister tossed his stomach as he peered through his rearview mirror and saw the cop tailing him.

  
Beads of sweat materialized on his brow. He had no choice–he was trapped.

  
As he pulled over he raised his air-conditioning to full blast and willed himself with every fiber and cell to stop sweating, but to no avail.

  
The cop pulled behind him and began typing on his computer.

  
For what seemed like hours the cop typed, and Sam sat with his hands on his steering wheel, running through every conceivable scenario in his mind, but learning nothing.

  
Finally, the cruiser door opened and the cop stepped out. He adjusted his hat, fixed his utility belt on his pants, and approached.

  
Sam lowered his window.

  
The officer stopped next to Sam and peered inside. He and Sam locked eyes for a second. Sam glanced at his waist, where the officer's unholstered gun taunted him.

  
"Sam Higgins."

  
Sam gulped. "Sir?"

  
"License and registration please."

  
Sam breathed deeply to calm himself, then reached towards his glove compartment. He stopped his hand mid-air.

  
"It's in my glove compartment," he said.

  
The cop nodded. "That's fine."

  
Sam continued and withdrew his registration. He shuffled to take his wallet from his pocket, then his license from his wallet.

  
The cop took and studied both, glancing at a shivering Sam periodically.

  
He didn't look up from the documents when he finally spoke. "The missing persons report on you just closed just the other day."

  
Sam laughed awkwardly, unable to form a reply.

  
The cop continued. "You doing okay?"

  
"Yes."

  
Raising an eyebrow, the cop looked at Sam. "You sure? You can tell me if something's wrong, son. You have nothing to fear from the police."

  
Sam attempted a grin. "Everything's fine, officer."

  
"Mmhmm," he replied. He handed back Sam's documents. "So what brings you all the way to Tennessee?"

  
A drenching mist flashed across Sam's brow. Beads of sweat trickled from the tip of his nose to his chin, and he had to resist the urge to shift his car to drive and slam on the gas. He was certain the cop could hear him breathing. "I, y-you know–visiting friends."

  
The cop continued to eye him skeptically. "It's good to have the support of friends and family after what you went through," he said. "It's not uncommon that a person loses their mind–acts irrationally–fights off nonexistent ghosts and the sort–fighting, trying to regain control of their life after what you went through. You feeling any urge to save the world, Sam?"

  
He chuckled. Sam's eyes began watering–the cop knew, he was toying with him. Sam was certain now, he was going to die. He'd survived a whopping ten minutes after finding out the truth, pathetic even by his standards.

  
"Sam?"

  
Sam attempted a smile, then faked a laugh, poorly, which came out sounding short and deep, a mix between a laugh, a cough, and a choke. He wanted to cover his mouth but kept his sweaty palms planted on the steering wheel.

  
"N-no urges, sir."

  
"Good man. I was going to write you up for reckless endangerment because of the way you swerved and took off at the light, but seeing what you've recently been through, I suspect a warning should suffice just fine."

  
Sam gulped. That was it? The cop
didn't
know?

  
"Thank you, sir."

  
The cop tipped the brim of his hat. "Take care, Sam."

  
"Y-you too."

  
Sam watched the cop return to his cruiser, feeling like he lived only by a coin flip. He rolled up his window and as soon as it sealed he exhaled heavily and began panting as if he'd been holding his breath. He didn't hesitate–pulling back onto the road and driving as fast as the speed limit allowed.

  
No this won't work, he resolved once safe–there was no way he could survive on his own. He needed help, he needed someone he could trust, and he hated thinking it–but the only one who could protect him, the only one he could trust was the very man he intended to kill. He had to find Pat Shane, and reconsider his goal that was to kill his only means to survival.

◊   ◊   ◊

   The following day in Sherwood Hills saw the small town divided, half the families sided with Brandon, Jack, and Pat Shane, and the other half with Lee and Andy Perkins.

  
Lee was disappointed with how badly his plan had backfired, and how a simple assassination mission had turned into a fight for his life. Yet, the cold thought of a disappointed Claire kept him on task, kept him optimistic–yes, he could still win this–he knew he could, and the thought of Claire in her bed, thinking of him, waiting for him to get back so she could thank him properly invigorated him further.

  
He could beat Shane–not only was he smarter than his foe, but his foe was a damn lunatic. Frankly, Lee felt slightly embarrassed that Shane had over-stepped him, but he comforted himself with the fact that he'd merely made a slight underestimation. A mistake, unfortunately for Shane, that he wouldn't make twice. If the lunatic could outwit him a second time, Lee reasoned, he deserved his death.

  
Lee descended the wooden staircase, noting the smoothness of the wooden handrail. The Perkins had stressed that he stay with them, as he was too valuable to go off on his own and they were certain that if he tried booking a hotel, someone (Andy stressed it'd be Brandon) would show up and kill him in his sleep. The tension was that high.

  
Pat Shane's camp was stationed at Brandon's house, which was directly across the field from Andy's, and as the tension multiplied families brought their things to whomever's house they supported and camped there, relying heavily on safety in numbers.

  
The men and some women stood watch at times, and houses next door to Brandon's and Andy's were raided for supplies. Dramatic, Lee supposed, but a necessary precaution. Leola Perkins and Lindsey Lang from Lee's camp were hysterical and useless, and had to be convinced on a daily basis not to call the police.

  
"We don't know who the cops are, or if they're trustworthy," Andy said. "They could be aliens, or they could be working for Shane."

  
Lee's entire camp was convinced that everyone on Shane's side was likely already an alien, and that Shane had his side convinced of the same regarding them. Lee, of course, didn't actually believe that–he didn't believe any of that alien nonsense, but it was the only way to protect himself and get others to help him kill Shane.

◊   ◊   ◊

   Bernard Scott opened the back patio door and entered Andy's home, then walked to the fridge and poured himself a glass of water. Andy stood behind the kitchen counter and nodded as he entered. Bernard glanced at Andy, the once meek man who, considering his disheveled hair that normally lay combed and unshaven face that he'd always kept smooth, had become a hardened force to be reckoned with in a matter of days. But it seemed all of them adapted once their peaceful little neighborhood had turned to a war-zone.

  
"Jack Evans has been mirroring me for the past three hours," Bernard said, pouring himself a glass of water. "It's certainly suspicious, I've never seen him so persistent. The real Jack would've probably collapsed from the heat or whined his way out of that by now."

  
"Definitely suspicious," Andy agreed as he took the gun with no hesitation from Bernard. "I suppose it's my turn now. Knowing my luck, I bet they attack as soon as I step outside."

  
Bernard forced a grin. "They'll never cross that field without you taking at least one or two of them out."

  
"Good point," Andy said as he opened the back patio door and left.

  
Bernard turned to Stanley Lang, who'd woken from a quick nap during their conversation.

  
"Stanley. Do you know who's guarding the perimeters?"

  
Stanley scratched his beard. "Nick Robins and your wife I think."

  
"Belinda's out there?"

  
"Yep."

  
"Interesting…" Bernard paused. "What magic happened to pull that one off?"

  
"Nick asked her and she agreed. It was pretty simple."

  
"Alright," Bernard said, confused.

  
He walked out the front door, which now felt like the back door, thinking that his wife had been acting odd as of late. He looked to his left and saw Andy's car down the street and Nick perched behind it in a folding chair. He looked to his right and saw his wife reclined in a folding chair behind Scott Lang's car, with a glass of water and a book, her feet propped upon the tire.

  
He waved at Nick, who saw him and waved back. Bernard didn't like Nick, and if the man hadn't been homosexual Bernard would've been certain that his wife was having an affair.

  
He turned and approached Belinda. When he got to the last house before the curve of the road he ducked and ran. She saw him but didn't acknowledge him until he was safe behind her car.

  
He stroked her hair. "What spurred you to take a shift, honey? I thought we agreed women didn't have to if they didn't want to."

  
"I was bored and needed some sun," Belinda said. "I needed a break from all this."

  
"You're supposed to be guarding, making sure none of them sneak up this way."

  
She rolled her eyes. "As if I wouldn't notice a car approaching from three hundred feet away. I'm not blind Bernie."

  
"Well, just be careful alright?" he said.

  
She smiled. "Aww. Are you worried about me?"

  
"So what if I am?"

  
She grinned coyly and grabbed his shirt collar, pulling him close. "That'd be awfully sweet of you."

  
She kissed him for the first time in weeks. At first he let his mind relax, but the worry of the other side kept it restless and he ended the kiss long before it ran its course.

  
As he pulled away he gave her an apologetic look, but she just huffed and cast her gaze down the road. "I'm keeping watch. Happy now?"

  
He paused, upset with himself, although he knew he was doing the right thing. "Linda…"

  
She ignored him. He continued. "I can keep watch if you want."

  
"I'm fine."

  
He frowned. This was their normal dynamic as of late.

  
He was almost twenty years older than her, but back when they'd first met, he was in an unhappy marriage, soon to be divorced, and she was young and beautiful. They hit it off immediately. When his divorce finalized he moved into a suite in the city and she moved in with him, and a year later they were wed and in love. In that time, he'd never been happier, but he grew older and although the difference in years never changed, their love had.