She put down her glass. "What?"
"Oh yeah," he smiled, glad to have something to talk about. "He thinks the aliens are already here, posing as humans."
Her mouth dropped slightly and her eyebrows raised.
"Does that seem like normal behavior to you, Mr Higgins?"
He laughed, and then stopped when he realized she thought him an idiot. "No, no not at all."
She smiled condescendingly. "Why does he think the aliens are already here, Mr Higgins?"
He noted hearing his name repeated, and it made him uncomfortable. "You can, um, well, y-you can call me Sam–if you want…"
"Okay. Sam, please. Why does he think the aliens–"
"Right, right! B-because he sees them. And it makes sense that they might be here. Nature of predators to spy on their prey, something like that. He's really the person you should be asking about this, not me."
"How do you know all of this if he kidnapped you?"
He was struck dumb, "I… well–"
"How kidnapped were you exactly, Sam?"
"I mean, well," Sam swallowed. "He tried to murder me!"
She kept staring, unsympathetic.
His eyes red, he finally made eye-contact. "What do you want from me?"
"Your silence, Sam," she replied, her tone much darker.
He gulped. His mouth was dry. "Are you going to kill me?"
She paused, then laughed, and after a moment he joined in, and they laughed together for a few seconds before she said merrily, "not unless I have to!" And she kept laughing and he followed, too afraid to stop.
She wiped her eyes, her smile fading instantly. "Yes, well, not unless I have to, Sam. Do you understand how serious I am?"
He nodded. He wanted her to leave, or have sex with him. He'd never been so conflicted. He thought about those bathroom stalls with the hole in the wall where guys stuck their junk and the girl on the other end would, well, do stuff with it. He shook his head, but the thought lingered. How perfect would that be if he had one of those on his front door, and he could lock her out? Best of both worlds. He'd need a peephole with a better perspective though.
He stopped the thought, his conscience kicking in. A woman was threatening to kill him and all he could think about was sex. He considered how his panicked mind had reacted earlier, to the threat of Pat, and how it reacted now, and realized that he had absolutely no useful survival instinct, and toyed with the thought that he probably deserved to die. He'd need to improve his instincts somehow, clearly he'd inherited his from his parents.
He shuffled awkwardly and crossed his legs, and hoped she hadn't and wouldn't lower her gaze to the crotch of his pants.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What?"
"N-nothing. Um, my cheeks are red from my rosacea."
"That's fascinating, Sam. I don't want you talking to anyone about what happened at the Centre. Are we clear?"
"C-crystal."
"Speak up."
"Um. Crystal clear."
"Good."
She took a sip of her orange juice, and he thought it was odd that, in a week's time, he'd wanted to sprint screaming from his home twice.
She put her empty glass back on the table and licked her lips. "Thank you, Sam, you've been more than kind."
He nodded, but was too afraid to stand–for multiple reasons. He wished his chair had wheels or could fly so he could zoom out of his living room without having to stand, out from underneath her thousand pound gaze.
He scratched his head. "So uh, what have you been up to?"
"Kicking ass and taking names. You?"
"A-about the same. Good times." He smiled. She smiled back.
"Well, I have to get going," she said, standing up.
He followed–in the clear now. "Um, aside from the death threats, it was really nice seeing you again, Claire."
He said it genuinely, and she turned and gave him what looked like the first genuine smile of the day. "Yes. It was good, wasn't it? Take care, Sam."
"You too." He went in for a kiss on the cheek, but she turned quicker than he moved, so he brushed back his hair instead, playing it off in one less-than-smooth motion.
Claire pulled open the door to leave, Sam right behind her, and as the daylight hit their faces they simultaneously gasped at the tall figure approaching the doorway.
"That's a hell of a way to greet an old friend," said Pat Shane.
◊ ◊ ◊
The son shall not be by the sins of the
father. The soul that sins, it shall die.
The mercy of the righteous shall be upon
him, and the treachery of the wicked shall be
his alone to bear. (Ezekiel 18:20)
Agent Summers read this twice more.
The Genetic Decontamination Centre had this passage written with gold lettering in the stone tympanum above the door, within the arch of the entrance, and Summers couldn't understand why, but as he read it, chills electrified his skin, and he rubbed down the hairs on his arms.
So this was GenDec.
Seemed like just the place where a blood-curling scream could erupt at any moment–and he was on constant alert, as if walking through a deserted chapel in the heart of the woods, at night of course.
Summers pulled open the large door with the sound of the buzzer and entered. He glanced around. It felt like walking through a stone air-conditioning vent. As he traversed the halls, he felt almost surprised at the lack of screaming. They must've been muffled by the countless fan blades, he thought.
He approached the door he'd been looking for. Upon its frosted glass window were engraved the words PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE, but Summers thought WARDEN'S OFFICE would have been more apt. Daniel Berry insisted on likening to himself to a principal, and his facility a school.
The secretary glanced up from her nails, and recognized Summers immediately, buzzing him through. As he opened the door, Berry stood from behind his desk. Summers couldn't help smirking at the PRINCIPAL DANIEL BERRY name plate sitting upon the desk, large and prominent.
You aren't fooling anyone, Summers thought. Well, on second thought, he was.
The two men approached and shook hands, with white-lipped grins and condescending eyes.
"The FBE, eh?" Berry said in a fat, jolly manner, "here with another lesson on morality and ethics, I presume?" He chuckled. Summers frowned.
"Not today. I'm here concerning Pat Shane. We need to grasp his psyche before we can determine the most appropriate steps."
Berry nodded. "Mmhmm. So the innocent son of a murderer gets castrated without a second thought, as long as he's idiotic, of course, while a cold-blooded murderer gets a chance at a normal life because he was blessed with brains. And the FBE complains that we're the unethical ones." Berry laughed, then wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. "My, doesn't that just tickle you, Agent?"
"As I said, I'm not here concerning the ethics of our organizations. I'm here concerning Pat Shane, and that's all."
"Alright then, point taken. Now, how can I help?"
"I'd like to see exactly what you do here."
"Agent Summers, what do you think we do? We're a school! We teach, of course!"
Summers glared, and considered the ethical implications of a swift right to the condescending prick's jaw. He clenched his fist as he spoke. "With electroshock therapy and food depravation, so I've been told."
"Agent Summers–can I call you Chris?"
"No."
"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news Chris, but what your FBE refuses to believe is that our methods work. You'd be out of a job if they would just admit it! As questionably ethical as it is to use such negative reinforcement techniques–and don't think for a second that I don't realize it–at least we're saving lives. Hundreds of lives! We give the kids a chance to not hinder society, and we don't predetermine their fate before they've had a chance to act. Did you by chance read the passage on the archway?"
"Yes, I did. I'd like to see your methods in action."
The secretary buzzed back. "Yes, Mr Berry?"
"Could you call Michael to my office, please?"
"No problem, Mr Berry."
Berry turned to Summers. "Michael is a good kid, one of our crowning achievements. He'll give you a tour, and answer any questions that you might have."
Summers nodded and looked around Berry's office. A large file cabinet sat behind the desk, and above it hung a framed portrait of Berry, looking off to the right and holding his chin, an obvious attempt to look wise and introspective. The real Berry was much larger around the waist than his portrait counterpart, and Summers thought it amusing that he'd keep it where a curious eye would immediately notice the weight and posture difference.
Why wouldn't he keep the portrait in the hallway? On second thought, Summers realized, there were no portraits in the hallway. Was it because the kids would tear them down?
A moment later, a skinny sixteen-year-old boy with sunken eyes and a constant, slight quiver entered the office with a knock. As he entered, the boy was laden by Berry's heavy arm across his shoulders, and Summers noticed it wasn't as much gesture of warmth as it was of possession. This is my timid, broken, skinny kid, Berry's arm implied.
"Agent Summers, this is Michael, one of our best young minds. Michael, if you wouldn't mind giving the agent here a tour of the school?"
"Sir, n-not a problem, sir. Sir–" he turned to Summers, but before he continued, his gaze dropped. Summers followed it, and noted that it rested on his gun, if only for a second. The boy continued, "–If you w-wouldn't mind too much coming with me?"
Summers nodded. "Lead the way."
"Don't let the agent have too much fun, m'boy!" Berry called out as they left. "We can't have everyone signing up to live here, now can we?"
At that moment, Summers lunged at him and punched him swiftly across the jaw, knocking out all his teeth as Michael cheered. Summers then returned to reality, where Berry remained standing boastfully, and sighed. If only.
The office door shut behind them as Summers followed Michael through the stone hallways. They advanced wordlessly, and Summers took note of Michael's gray jumpsuit.
He followed Michael through the empty lunchroom, imagining what had happened here with Waltz and Shane those years ago. Silence, shock, laughter, and shame seemed to stick to the spotless walls like plaster. He adjusted his sports jacket and looked curiously around the room.
"Why aren't you in class?" he asked. Michael ignored the question, steadfast in his quick pace, and to keep up Summers had to lightly jog. They passed tall, elevator-like doors, but Michael didn't offer an explanation or even slow down. He just kept glancing left and right nervously, as if something might pounce from the walls.
They abruptly turned a corner and Michael stopped walking. Summers stopped as well. They were in an empty east/west hallway, a cross between two north and south sections. No doors or windows in sight–they were completely surrounded by choking gray cement.
He was about to speak, ask Michael why he was rushing around and not giving him a tour in the slightest. But as he opened his mouth, Michael suddenly lunged forward and grabbed him by his shirt. Summers stepped back, but didn't defend himself. The boy was frail, he could handle it, and he had to see this. The true psyche of GenDec's kids.
"You gotta get me out of here please!" Michael cried.
"What?"
"Please! Do whatever you have to, please! I can't take any more therapy!"
Summers grasped the boy's thin wrists and pried him gently off his shirt. "I'll see what I can do. Help me Michael. What can you tell me about this place? What do they do to you?"
Michael stepped back, holding his head in his hands. He shook back and forth, glancing all around. "They break you. They hook nodes up to your head, show you videos, shock you for no reason! For no reason you get no food."
He made eye contact with Summers for the first time. "I didn't do anything!"
"It's not about that–"
"I didn't do anything! What did I do?"
"Nothing. Listen, I know."
"Why am I here?"
Summers shook his head. " 'Why are you here?' "
"I don't understand."
"They didn't tell you? Listen, your father or someone in your family committed a heinous crime, that's why. It's not your fault."
Tears made Michael's eyes red. "So punish them. Shock them. Not me, please, not me."
"I'm sorry, Michael."
"Sorry?" said Michael, glancing up with red-brimmed eyes, eyebrows heavy with fury. The kid reminded Summers not of a predator, not a warrior, but of a neglected bird, backed into the corner of its cage, lashing out at any hand that enters not out of spite but fear.
Again he charged Summers, who stepped backwards, thinking that this whole situation was completely absurd, and once again he shoved Michael off him. He fell hard, and Summers was shaken. "The hell, kid. You can't just attack people–oh."
Sitting on the ground, Michael looked at his hands, where he now held a gun. Summers checked his holster–yep, the gun that Michael grabbed was definitely his. Summers felt his heart begin to race.
"Michael. Easy, Michael. What are you doing?"
Michael played with the gun, absent-mindedly assessing the weight of the cold metal in his hands. "They tell us to treat others better than ourselves. They say do not unto others."
"Michael, give me back my gun."
Ignoring him, the boy continued rambling. "Good. I get it now. I bet this facility will receive a lot of bad press because of this–you, you'll tell them about me, won't you?"
Summers approached cautiously and crouched, holding out his hand, keeping it steady, as if reaching off a boat for a drowning man. "Give me back my gun, Michael. It's okay, I promise, it's really okay. Just give me back the gun."
Michael lifted the gun to his skull, finger clutching the trigger. "Is this how you do it?"
Summers shouted. "No! No, Michael, if you shoot yourself nothing will happen except you'll be dead." He felt his panic rising. At least the safety was on, or he hoped. "You think this place will tell the world that you killed yourself?" He glanced at the school bells on the walls and wondered when class got out. Anger bubbled deep inside him. How could they let kids get to this point?
Michael lowered the barrel of the gun to his chest. "Will it hurt through my heart? I don't want any more pain."
Summers reached forward further, wondering if he could just snatch it. He wasn't completely certain that the safety was on and didn't want to risk it. "No more pain, Michael, listen, I promise. Look at me, look at me. I promise."
Michael lifted his head, tears in his eyes. Summers continued. "Please Michael–give me back the gun. It's okay, I promise it's okay. I can get you out of here. I work for the government. Government agents can't lie, it's illegal. Put down the gun and I'll take you out of here right now."
Michael lifted the gun, pointing it up, underneath his chin. "I'm scared. Do you know? I don't want any more pain."
"Michael, I can have you out of here right now, if you just hand me the gun. No problem, look at me." Michael locked eyes with Summers, seemingly considering his words. Summers continued. "Do I look like a liar to you?"
His consideration only lasted a moment apparently. "I don't want any more pain," Michael said, then turned the gun to the side and flicked off the safety. Summers wondered how he knew to do that and cursed silently that he hadn't snatched the gun earlier.
"Two seconds, Michael. That's how long it will take me to get you out of here. I promise."
Michael blinked. "I'm sorry mister. This will save the rest of them. This will save everyone else. I'll be a hero. For the good of man, of course."
Like an explosion in his chest, the school bells suddenly erupted, impossibly loud. Summers practically left his socks as he jumped. Doors slid open, and kids began swarming the hallways.
He recovered. "Micha
el, don't–"
Too late. The gunshot rang out, echoing through the hallways, muffled by countless footsteps. Blood clashed with stone, spraying onto Summers’ jacket and face. He froze, shocked.
A stampede of footsteps bounced from all directions–suddenly he was surrounded by hundreds of silent, stunned faces, staring at the agent and the gore. Someone screamed.
"Get the principal now," Summers yelled.
Nobody acknowledged him. Just screaming.
"Get the principal NOW!"
"So, what the fuck happened, Agent?"
Berry was livid, pacing inside his office. Thirty minutes after the affair, after the cleanup, after the shock–Summers watched the principal attempt to compensate.
"He grabbed my gun," Summers said. Berry turned, red-faced, blood vessel pulsing on his forehead.
"Why the fuck would you bring a gun in here?"
"Same reason I bring a gun everywhere," Summers said, his temper rising. "What exactly are you doing to the kids here? Apparently something even worse than torture."
"Therapy," Berry replied.
"Different sides of the same coin to you."
"Don't you dare preach to me about what's ethical and what isn't. What we do to them, at least they can recover from!"
"Physically, maybe. Mentally–apparently not."
Berry slammed a hand down on his desk, then took a deep breath. "Okay. Please, Agent–what happens now?"
"A lot happens now. I need to report this. The bureau is going to need to follow up with every single person you've released. That boy was in pain, Berry. Who knows how many other tortured souls you've released?"
"That was an isolated incident."
"Is his 'therapy' different from anyone else's?–Wait, let me answer that. No. It's probably more mild, considering the high esteem you had for the boy not a few hours ago."
Berry put his hands on his temples. "You're going to get the FBE involved."
"I don't see what other options I have."
"Okay then, Agent. Then there's nothing more for us to say. I trust you remember your way out?"
Summers didn't reply. Fuming, he turned and left, leaving his gun on the principals desk. He didn't want to look at it.
The Harbinger Break Page 8