Read The Harbinger Break Online
Authors: Zachary Adams
"Tell me what you saw, Pat.”
Shane grinned. "Are you going to charge me the normal rate?"
Fischer laughed, maybe a little too hard. He didn't know how he did it, but right then it felt like he dodged a bullet. He felt like he answered correctly, like he won.
"For you? Only half. Tell me what you saw."
"I saw the skin of your face shift and disorient. I heard sounds coming from your mouth, and although I understood the meaning behind them, I couldn't make out the words. I saw you approach me, and trap me, and inject me with a pale green liquid. And then, when I awoke, everything was back to normal."
Fischer nodded and crossed his legs. He stroked his chin, attempting to look calm, to look like they were back in a professional setting, and not in his house, and not with a gun.
"You're a smart man, Pat. Smarter even than I am. Humor me for a moment… if what you saw was just in your mind, and those visions weren't real, what's something else that could have caused you to hallucinate like that?"
Shane took a sip of scotch from his cracked glass. He closed his eyes.
"It's possible that GenDec was drugging me, and my withdrawal led me to develop a sickness not unlike Delirium Tremens."
"That seems reasonable to me, Pat. So, consider this for a moment: I obviously can't prove to you that I'm not an alien, try as I might. But you're a reasonable man, and I know you love this country and what it advocates. So–and not to sound condescending–but remember 'innocent until proven guilty'? Couldn't you give me the benefit of the doubt, at least until you've found more evidence that suggests otherwise?"
Shane grabbed his empty glass and laughed quietly to himself. “Not bad, doctor,” he said, standing. “You know I invented everything I said about snails earlier, right?"
Fischer stared at Shane, struck dumb, watching him walk over to the mantle to refill his glass.
“I suppose I could give you the benefit of the doubt,” Shane continued.
Fischer grinned. Then he burst out laughing. He leaned back in the armchair, feeling good, confidence rebounding, thinking of the snails, thinking that this was the reason they pay him the big bucks. Yeah, that 'benefit of the doubt' line wasn't too shabby…
He was still laughing when a giant hand suddenly covered his mouth and lifted his chin–stifling first his laughter, then his screaming.
"I could," Shane said. "But I can't take that chance."
And the last thing Fischer ever felt was the cold steel of a razor as Shane split open his neck.
Part 1
By the Sins of the Father
When the police arrived, they found Patches Shane relaxing, sitting in the armchair a foot away from Dr Fischer's corpse, calmly polishing off a glass of scotch. He turned as they kicked open the front door, and greeted them as they lunged and pinned him to the red carpet floor, blending with Dr Fischer's blood.
They read him his rights and led him to the back of a cruiser. There were four units, each with their lights on and pounding, and Pat felt himself disorienting again. He watched, nausea building, as the lights stood still and the world spun around him, trapping him in a maelstrom of blue and red. He could puke.
Shouldn't have eaten that microwavable meal, he knew better. They got him again–or something got him–he was sure, something in the food, he felt it, like neon and black oil in his veins, slimy coating of grease easing towards his mind, thoughts slipping to the floor–he knew this feeling well, and it terrified him.
His head began to swim, he felt himself slipping. Or crystalizing. What was it? The food?
He faced Fischer's house and squinted. Inside, for barely a moment, he saw a bright light flash–there was no mistaking it. It engulfed and then dimmed, lasting no more than a second.
He turned to tell the officer holding him, but as he did so the officer's face began melting and distorting. The other cops, staring at him with cocked heads and crooked smiles, remained normal, yes, the evidence pointed towards crystallization.
Pat turned to the officer with the melting face, leaned in close, tilting (or maybe that was the ground), and breathed heavily on the officer's ear.
"I knew what he was,
cop
, and I know what you are too."
The police officer locked eyes with Patches, frowning. He patted his belt for something, found it, and returned a menacing grin. He held in his hand a syringe, the same Dr Fischer had, and he glared at Pat as he shifted his radio.
"Suspect is receding," the cop said. "Episode as doctor described seems imminent."
The radio buzzed back. "Copy. You are authorized to use means necessary to subdue suspect safely."
"10-4," the cop said, and holstered his radio. He flicked the top of the syringe, squirted some of the neon green liquid from the top, and injected.
Pat didn't resist. He knew now wasn't the time. He didn't have to. And he wasn't crazy.
"It doesn't matter," Pat said, losing consciousness, the world fading. "I know your face."
◊ ◊ ◊
Special Agent Chris Summers of the Federal Bureau of Eugenics walked into the Jacksonville Police Station and was met with a few cheers. The appearance of the Federal Bureau of Eugenics at police stations never bode well for the criminals there, meanwhile officers seemed to feel a sense of satisfaction that their cases warranted an FBE investigation. If the FBE was called in, that meant they had subdued a truly heinous criminal.
"Tell me you're here for Roberto Wallace," said an officer at the front desk. "The bastard murdered his wife and kids!"
Agent Summers shook his head. "No, not today."
"Who are you here for?"
He glanced at his pager. "Shane, Patches. Where can I find Detective Jones?"
The officer wiped mustard from his chin and pointed.
"In the back, on the left wall. If you pass the water cooler you've gone too far."
"Alright, thanks."
Summers turned and walked down the hall of the station. He wore a black jacket, black pants, a white button-down, a black tie, and a hat. Despite being in his early thirties, he had a chiseled-by-time appearance–a past holier-than-thou confidence worn, stripped and everything but forgotten. A look that implied restlessness–tired mornings spent longing to fall back asleep, forcing himself out of bed–he was tired, he'd say when asked, just tired. And he was asked often.
A criminal restrained in handcuffs glanced at Summers, and then double-took when he saw Summers’ badge. His eyes bulged, as if trying to eject from the body carrying them.
"Of fuck man fuck! I didn't do nothin'! It wasn't me oh fuck why'd you call them I didn't do nothin' man I swear!"
One of his police escorts shoved him from behind. "Shut up."
The criminal burst into tears, an all too common reaction to an FBE presence. The officer grinned at Summers, who locked eyes with him and nodded, but didn't grin back. He rarely grinned since his promotion.
He turned the corner and approached a thick, bald detective on the phone at his desk. As Summers pulled up a chair, the detective told the other end that he had to go, and hung up.
"The FBE, huh… What can I do you for Agent?"
"Detective Jones?
"Yep."
"I'm here about Patches Shane."
"Can't say I'm surprised."
"It's not what you think," Summers said. "Shane's been a tricky case. His IQ is off the charts, so the bureau isn't going to green light anything until we can confirm his mentality."
"He slit the throat of his psychiatrist. Criminals have been… ugh–do I have to say it?–been
castrated
for far less." He shook his head. "God I hate saying that. Makes me feel ill."
"We're not ready to pull the plug on his genes just yet, I'm afraid. I'm here to evaluate him. What can you tell me?"
"Aside from the fact that he killed the doctor downstairs, then carried the body upstairs?"
Summers raised an eyebrow. "In the case report, your officers wrote they found the corpse downstairs, next to Shane."
"They were wrong. And that's not even the oddest part about this whole fiasco."
"What is?"
The detective rustled through his notes and pulled out a file. "He's been talking in his sleep,"
After a four hour drive, Agent Summers walked up to a salmon bungalow in a small neighborhood. The door was white, and beside it was a tall window, stretching from top of the door to the floor, where a white Maltese stood and stared out at him.
Summers knocked twice. After a moment, a man came around, picked up the dog and opened the door.
Summers appraised him. He was large, average height, dark tan, slightly balding, with hairless arms and slightly red cheeks that made him look jolly but was likely a result of his rosacea.
The man looked Summers up and down quickly. Summers, being over six feet, had the man by a few inches.
From what he'd heard, Shane was even taller than he was–a height advantage that didn't bode well for anyone.
"What can I do you for–uh…" the man glanced at Summers’ badge. "Oh no."
"Mr Higgins, it's not what you think–"
"Oh thank God."
"Can I come in?"
"So wait, is it the other…?"
"No. If you'll just let me explain…"
Sam Higgins he stepped aside and ushered inside the agent. "Sorry. Yeah, come in."
Summers entered the home. Christmas ornaments were scattered on every conceivable location, and it was well past the holiday. It had the dust and slight thick mold smell of a nursing facility. Sam led the agent to his kitchen table, and offered him orange juice, which he declined.
"I'm here to talk about Pat Shane," Summers said.
"Pat Shane? You mean, from…" Sam paused and scratched his head. "Um–"
"–I know about your past, Mr Higgins."
"O-okay."
"You were a great win for the supporters of the Genetic Decontamination Centre. GenDec."
Sam paused and looked down at his lap. "Then you don't know that much about my past."
Summers took out a notebook and didn't ask.
"I'm here concerning Pat Shane, Mr Higgins, and that's all."
Sam nodded. "Okay. W-what do you want to know?"
"What's your relationship with Mr Shane?"
" 'My relationship'?"
"Yes."
"You mean what
was
my relationship?"
"Sure," Summers said.
"Well, I mean… well," Sam scratched his head. "I guess back at GenDec, long before he tried to escape and was killed, I would have considered him my friend. That was before he stepped in, well… my urine." Sam blushed and refused to make eye-contact.
Summers coughed on a laugh. "Come again?"
"I-I was young, and nervous, and prone to wetting myself. And one day during lunch, I-you know, and it got on the floor and on our feet. I was already shy and teased a lot, but Pat kept to himself, and because of that he was teased for stepping in it."
Summers shook his head. It was a Saturday. His contemporaries were either likely waking up, mowing their lawn, cooking breakfast for their kids, or reading the paper. He was having a conversation about urine.
He closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing. "Was that the extent of your relationship with Shane?"
"For the most part."
"Is there anything else? Anything that might help us understand his psyche?"
"Well… that's trickier," Sam said, scratching his head. He made for his cheeks but stopped himself. "I've thought about this before actually. A few weeks after that incident–I would say we were around eleven at the time–he talked to Claire Waltz."
Summers scribbled into his notepad. "Claire Waltz?"
Sam nodded, looking down at his shoes. "By far the, y-you know, prettiest girl at GenDec. I mean, it's whatever."
"Alright."
"He approached her. I was nearby. I was watching, but I didn't really care, you know? I mean, I-I already had a girlfriend at the time."
Summers glanced up. "Is any of this relevant?"
Sam shuffled. "Sorry. Yeah. Sorry. S-so he introduced himself. But to the back of her head–she didn't even turn around. She was talking to her friends. So he tapped her on the shoulder. Her left shoulder, but then he went to sit down to her right. She turned to find nobody behind her. I remember hearing a few boys snicker, I think they were Bloodsuckers–"
"Bloodsucker?"
"The gang of kids who only wore red jumpsuits."
"Okay."
"So Pat introduced himself again. She told him to go away, and I remember he asked her why. I mean, Pat wasn't a bad looking kid or anything–if it's not weird to say that. I-I don't know. She was just being mean, is what I'm getting at. She told him she thought he was weird. He offered her his chocolate cake, to let him sit and talk with her. And well, this is when things got ugly…" Sam paused dramatically, hungering for the agent's attention. Summers tapped his pencil on his knee. After a moment, Sam continued. "She took his cake, and squished it into his mac and cheese–"
"Squished it?"
"Like, yeah. Got him to take a few bites of the mess too. By now, pretty much every table nearby was watching, and the other girls at Claire's table were screeching with laughter like h-harpies." Sam flushed with anger. Summers eyed him curiously. So far his GenDec graduate track record included only a killer and a socially repressed man-child. Not a great first impression.
Then again, his opinion of GenDec had never been high.
"Sorry," Sam said.
"It's alright. So Shane took a few bites. Then what?"
"Well, I mean, he didn't care, he seemed happy enough that she acknowledged him. She, on the other hand, was just getting started."