The Harbinger Break

by Adams, Zachary

  "A toast, Fischer,” he said almost listlessly. “To you working for me now."

  Fischer stood frozen, his brain ticking a mile a minute. He didn't understand.

  Shane shook his head with a grin and sighed. "Have you never done a toast before, Fischer? Go ahead, get your glass."

  He spoke condescendingly, and Fischer didn't move.

  "What are you doing here Pat?" he said. “You can’t be here. What do you want?"

  Shane slammed his glass down onto the counter top, his smile gone. The impact startled Fischer, who jumped. Shane glanced down, as if deep in thought, and when his gaze returned he looked strangely compassionate. His hand was cut and bleeding from his semi-shattered, cracked glass.

  “I’d get my glass if I were you, doctor,” Shane said.

  Fischer complied. He walked to the coffee table and grabbed his glass, the situation already out of his control. The microwave beeped, and he twitched at the unexpected sound. He turned to see Shane taking out a second frozen dinner.

  "I replaced your dinner, so no harm done. Let's sit and chat."

  He walked from the kitchen and past Fischer, who watched him with bloodshot eyes, and sat in Fischer's other sofa. He motioned for Fischer to sit, and handed him the second frozen dinner.

  Fischer followed Shane’s commands wordlessly, his brain clicking and spinning like a film reel, rolling memories of doctorate classes, searching for anything he'd learned on the subject of life and death, but his projector's lamp was off.

  "Why are you in my house, Pat? Why do you have my gun?"

  Interrupting, Shane raised his glass. “To the truth,” he said.

  Fischer raised his and drank, keeping his eyes locked on Shane.

  Shane placed his drink aside and took the gun from his pocket, placing it on his lap.

  “So my question,” Fischer said. “Why are you–“

  “I heard you the first time,” Shane said.

  “You never answered.”

  Shane leaned deliberately forward. “Did you know that millions of years ago, the snail’s shell, as opposed to the mollusk inside, was the actual living organism? No? The snail we see today, the gastropod, was a parasite that buried itself inside the hard exoskeleton of the original round creature. Over time, the parasite’s DNA changed until it adapted what it needed to survive–the shell–and in the process killed off the entire host species.”

  Fischer shook his head. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Which is why, Fischer, that you and I are going to work together.”

  “Then why do you have my gun?”

  “And why am I here, right?”

  “Yes.”

  "To answer both your questions: to kill you. But no no no, Fischer no, take a deep breath. You didn't let me finish. To kill you, but only if I must."

  Fischer took a deep breath, holding his head in his hands. He spoke, staring at his lap.

  "What do you want, Pat?"

  "There you go! First, I want my chart. Second, I want you to admit who you really are."

  Fischer glanced up, Shane was staring back at him, waiting, with a slight grin on his face like a wolf who'd broken the leg of an elk, saliva dripping from hungry fangs.

  "Your chart is at the office. And I'm sorry, Pat, but I have no idea what you mean. I'm Doctor Simon Fischer. I'm a psychiatrist. I enjoy helping people, people like you Pat, but also people like me."

  "Good. Keep going. Tell me what you really are, Fischer. Remember that I've seen your true face."

  "I live alone. My work is my life. I've never been married. I've been paid by the FBE three separate times to impregnate three different women. Aside from that, my life is a plateau."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes… yes I'm sure."

  Shane stood and turned away from Fischer, with his scotch in his left hand and the pistol in his right. He took a sip and scratched the back of his head with the gun. Fischer stared at him, wondering if what he said worked, if he broke through.

  Fischer cleared his throat. “Are we–“

  "Do you think I'm stupid, Doctor?" Shane said, turning around, pointing the gun at Fischer, who instinctively raised his hands.

  "No! No! You're incredibly smart! Of course I know that, I've read your files."

  “Okay.” Shane lowered the weapon. "So let me tell you the facts, and feel free to correct me where I'm wrong:

  "In 1979, the Voyager 1 photographed evidence of intelligent life on Europa. Europa is one of Jupiter's moons. Do you know where I'm going with this?"

  Fischer stared, dumbstruck. "What? ' Where you're– ' Pat, believe me when I say that I have no idea why you're bringing up history from almost forty years ago!"

  "Okay!" Shane said, voice rising, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you are incredibly stupid. That's fine. In 1980, former President Morgan Scott beat out incumbent Jimmy Carter and former governor Ronald Reagan as President of the United States, becoming President in 1981. As an extreme Radicalist, Scott's campaign involved heavy criticism of global technological advancement, and he preached that, should the aliens–whom NASA discovered are not native to Europa, but settlers–decide to attack us, we'd be hopelessly out-matched. That is an undeniable fact, and something that you, of all people, would agree upon."

  "Why me 'of all people', Pat? Honest to God I have no idea what you're getting at."

  Shane laughed. He raised the gun at Fischer again and cocked back the hammer.

  "How fucking stupid do you think we Earthlings are?"

  "What are you–what?!" Fischer raised his hands again, and he pushed so far back in his armchair that its two foremost legs were raised off the ground. "What are you talking about! What are you saying?!"

  "You expect me to believe that in almost forty years, you Europans have been just sitting on your moon, ignoring us? Thirty-eight years with no attempt whatsoever at making contact? A society so advanced, yet apparently 'not interested' in even finding out whether or not a planet within walking distance is dangerous? I don't buy it Fischer, or whatever your real name is. And if you don't start revealing your plans right now, I will unload this gun into your skull to see if you aliens even can die. It's not what I came here to learn, but it's sure as hell better than nothing."

  "I'm not an alien, Pat! Oh my God I'm not an alien!"

  Fischer fell backwards in his chair as Shane approached, gun drawn, murder dancing in his wild eyes.

  "I saw what you really are, Fischer."

  "That wasn't real, Pat! I swear on anything and everything that wasn't real!"

  "You injected me–"

  "–I sedated you! You were having an episode!"

  Shane laughed, then smashed Fischer's drink off the coffee table.

  "An 'episode'… Why did these 'episodes’ only begin after I escaped? After I stopped eating regulated food?"

  "I don't know! I swear I don't know, they never told me what goes on at GenDec! Nobody knows what goes on there!"

  On the floor, Fischer moaned as Shane took a deep breath and calmed down slightly. "Okay. Alright, Doctor."

  He walked to where Fischer's glass landed on the floor, picked it up, and walked over to the mantle. Fischer wiped the tears from his eyes and considered running while Shane had his back turned, but decided against it. He'd never make it to the front door, a door which he now regretted locking. Shane handed him the refilled glass.

  "Drink."

  Fischer sat up and took a sip. Then another, and then finished the glass. He exhaled heavily.

  Shane sat back down. Silence filled the room, and Fischer heard the pounding of his heart and the swelling of his veins. His breath was so thick that it seemed to mist, as if his brain was certain that the room would run out of oxygen.

  A minute might have passed, but it felt like hours.

  Finally, Fischer couldn't stand it anymore, he had to say something. He stood slowly, fixed his
chair, and sat down.

  "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

  Chapter 1

  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."