"You shouldn't put your feet up there," Summers said.
"Why not?"
"I crash and those airbags are dislocating your legs right up to your head."
"Gross."
"I know, I've seen it."
Penelope put his feet down as they returned to the highway. They stopped talking for a little while, and Summers assumed they were both stuck in an internal hypothetical alien confrontation. Or the possibility of a confrontation never occurring.
Their time period referred to itself as a spiritual dark age, with the arts at a near standstill. A large majority of fiction novelists sold their craft on street corners in cardboard boxes for spare change, movies came out every few weeks, video games and television shows were the only media somewhat resistant to the compounding pressure of technology not just as growth, but as survival.
Summers assumed that was because someone in a political high-chair wanted the general public desensitized to violence, especially towards aliens. Reading was solely for expanding one's knowledge, as fiction could never completely absolve the impending aliens from tense minds like mindless video games and television shows could. A pretext for survival, but necessary. Paranoid minds were only useful until they collapsed, and asylums were filled to the brink.
This was the real cold war–nuclear threats were a laughable fear of the past. The bonds between nations were stronger with every fear-inducing rant from positions of power, attempting to inspire paranoia not only to maintain control, but as general concerns towards the safety of civilization. It was just safer to remain inside behind locked doors.
The military commissioned the construction of jets that could instantly burst to faster than sound travel, but what if the aliens were faster? They commissioned laser guided weaponry that can track and destroy a bullet mid-flight, but couldn't stop a laser.
The aliens were always faster, always stronger, always more technologically advanced. Some preached subservience over annihilation, others preached preemptive all-out war. It's possible humanity didn't have the power to destroy their motherships, but they sure as hell had the power to blow up Europa.
And then there was Patches Shane, and his "they're already here" theory. This was the scariest of all, like a ripple in black waters. It could already be too late.
But if that was the case, what was the point? Might as well enjoy it all–the terminally ill don't show up to work when the end is nigh–when there's not much to do but enjoy what little time left. But the end was nigh only in theory.
It was possible that the aliens simply didn't care. Maybe they just enjoyed the spectacle of humanity from afar, like watching trapped birds in a cage of mirrors, pecking at their invulnerable reflection to a heart-attack. Man might be their art, their television. The tiger in the entrapment, marking ownership of its cage–the Earth as man's cage–prowling around his land. Earth might already be the aliens’ real-estate.
Well then, Summers thought, might as well wipe clean the shit. GenDec was a blight on the portrait of humanity. It had to go, regardless of whether or not man was walking dead.
He could understood Shane's line of thinking, but he also understood what Shane did not. Even if the aliens were hiding on earth, spying on humanity–it was paradoxical to think that saving humanity by murder would save it at all. If Shane's ideology spread, regardless of whether or not the aliens attacked or whether or not they even initiated contact, humanity as an ideal would be forfeit, because humanity was based on the sole proposition that man is good and man should be good and good men can coexist. Society was based on the idea that large amounts of coexisting men can work together to create a better life. And when murder happens preemptively society is forfeit, the good of humanity along with it, and then man himself. Destroying society's ideals to save humanity would destroy both and save no one.
Or maybe he was wrong–but regardless, he slept well enough at night.
They arrived at Jacksonville around eight and booked a hotel for the evening. The following morning, after a text from Paige, they were ready to initiate the first step of their plan. Summers had awoken earlier than he'd planned, and as he listened to Penelope's choking snores he found himself silently praying that the lines of man and fate were drawn on separate sheets of paper.
◊ ◊ ◊
Sam Higgins blended locally grown vegetables in a juicer and drank the mixture with cement resolve. He'd become healthier since his new diet, both in mind and body. The initial withdrawal had faded completely, and his mind was a crystal greenhouse where words and thoughts never sprouted so easily, and as he drained the last of that green chunky mixture he weighed his options.
Something was definitely in the food–Pat was right about that, and until Sam found the hidden poison in humanity's sewers, Pat couldn't die. Only after he'd exposed the truth could Pat be wiped like a bug on a windshield from the face of the planet.
He decided to drive to the Bixplus distribution center, north of Savannah, on Maple if he remembered correctly, to investigate Pat's claim which had evolved into an undeniable fact. He packed a bag, and while packing he wondered if he should buy a gun, and if he should then how? A pawn shop? How much did guns even cost?
An hour later, Sam hit the road. He pulled up to a pawn shop next to a gas station. Two drunkards stared as he parked his car, and as he slowed to a stop that old nervous tick crawled out from hiding.
What if the shop ran a background check? What if he wouldn't be allowed to buy a gun because of his past? What if buying a gun set off a red flag, and led to him being tracked?
The two drunkards still hadn't averted their gaze.
No, Sam thought, better safe than sorry. He backed out of the parking spot and drove off, resolving that better ways of handling danger other than using a gun must exist. Pat only carried a knife, and he got along just fine. But then again, Pat was the one who did the attacking–he never had to defend himself.
Sam's silver Civic engaged the Skyway north, and Sam reclined in his seat and closed his eyes. He'd have to get as much sleep as he could, as there wouldn't be time to sleep later.
After a nine hour journey he awoke to a wailing alarm clock as his car disengaged at its predestined Maple exit. The magnetic claw released his car on a moving platform, which moved his car out of the way for any other car that might be disengaging behind him. The cars rotated in a circle, and the claw could sense open areas on the moving platform. If a car didn't drive off after a few rotations, a Skyway worker would usually go over to the car in question and knock on the window until the driver awoke and drove off. On the extremely rare occasion that there were no more openings on the moving platform, or no Skyway worker at that drop off, the Skyway would reengage the vehicle attempting to land and drop them off at the next available stop, to the extreme aggravation of the driver. But Sam had never seen that occur, and as he drove off the moving platform he wondered how often that even occurred.
He parked at a drugstore a block away and walked to the Bixplus distribution facility. Large semis drove to and from, surprising to Sam considering the late hour. He hadn't expected activity this late, and was forced to investigate before attempting to break in.
The facility apparently ran 24/7, although the later the hour the less frequently traffic seemed to arrive and leave the warehouse. But at all hours machinery operators were outside moving trailers, and tractors organizing shipments were constantly moving back and forth, effectively creating an impenetrable defense. And the loud drilling emanating from a bustling mechanics garage also contained men who'd grow suspicious of Sam's presence.
At four in the morning Sam began to question his brash blind-leaping strategy of invasion, coming to terms with the fact that it would take a lot more than just breaking and entering to uncover something of this magnitude.
The aliens, or whomever poisoned the food would've undertaken significant measures to protect that secret, and at that time Sam realized that the facility was either a stepping stone of Pat's plan, o
r Pat's plan was flawed. Either way, Sam sighed at the night wasted.
The next morning, he logged onto the internet at the Maple library, pulling up the Food and Drug Administration website, hoping to find something suspicious that could put him on the right track. If food was being drugged the FDA either had a hand in it or were gag ordered by someone with heavy political sway. He clicked on the "enforcements reports" link, then clicked the "food/cosmetics" tab and began scrolling through the recalls.
He couldn't know when the drugging of the food began, but he assumed it began at least two years prior. So week after week he read, reading recall after recall of incorrect labels, undeclared soy lecithin, allergen soy, gasping at some products he knew of although never tried contaminated with salmonella, Clostridium botulinum (whatever that was), and other products he consumed daily that were labeled gluten free that weren't actually gluten free, and the next eight hours dripped by before Sam stumbled upon something. Not what he was looking for, but something.
Apparently many of these food suppliers didn't actually make their own food. Alberts Bagels, Donut D-Lite, and even his favorite Val-E-Bars were all manufactured by Arlow Bakeries, a fact he uncovered in a wrapper recall when the FDA enforcement report stated that the individually wrapped Val-E-Bars were manufactured at Arlow Bakeries in Tennessee.
So poisoning America was easier than he originally thought. Instead of taking many different companies all coordinating their poisoning, it took just four or five companies that supplied basic ingredients to all the others. But what was the common denominator?
Then it hit him like a cream pie at a circus. Dough. Or an ingredient in dough–a common ingredient in the bread family. He needed to think, but he found the limitations of his mind as domineering as an impenetrable wall surrounded by a moat with alligators.
He had few options. He could contact a few companies and ask over the phone, and risk being disconnected, tracked, or lied to–or he could drive to the Arlow Bakery in Tennessee and investigate further in-person, but it'd be a long drive that might prove fruitless, and leave him over twenty-four hours from home.
◊ ◊ ◊
Lee White searched the internet for terms familiar with Pat Shane's line of thought. The hour crept past one before he discovered useful information. Searching for anything that could lead him to Pat proved tedious and complicated, but eventually he found an online journal from a Sandra Evans which read:
"The recently arrived professor brought with him tales of paranoia and fear that have begun to drive all of Sherwood Hills apart like a fanatical torque wrench. The aliens are already here. Frightening enough to remove doubt, tumultuous enough to drive sane men insane. I'm scared."
Lee closed his laptop, packed his things and left.
At around eight in the evening, he booked a room a half-mile outside of Sherwood Hills at a Motel 7. It was a sketchy scene–the motel seemingly falling apart, a dangerous neighborhood with chipped paint, totaled cars, chain link fences with over-flowing dumpsters and raccoons with their tapetum lucidum like hovering bulbs, judging him, convincing him that the first thing to do was purchase a firearm.
He strolled into the disheveled lobby. An ebony husk of cigarettes hovered in the air like a gas plume. He glanced at the apathetic twenty-something night auditor who seemed almost distraught as he watched Lee approach–a blatant interruption of his do-as-much-nothing-as-possible nightly routine.
"Checking in?" the auditor asked.
Lee nodded. "Yeah."
"You sure?"
Lee choked on a laugh. No, he absolutely wasn't sure, but he didn't have much of a choice. And then, what kind of desk clerk would ask that question?
"No other choice," Lee replied as apathetically as he could through his growing apprehension.
The auditor typed on the computer, and less than a minute later Lee was checked in and on his way up the stairs.
Then he stopped. That twenty-something year old didn't look like the threatening type. He looked like a kid working his way through school, trustworthy enough. And in his current situation, Lee felt like a shrimp on a lure and the trustworthy type seemed few and far between.
He turned and approached the night auditor again.
"Hey."
The auditor glanced up. "Problem?"
"No, nothing like that."
Lee paused. "You–um, you think if I gave you cash, you could get me a gun?"
The auditor studied Lee for a moment, who felt confident that he had to be the least threatening person that the auditor had ever seen. For God's sake, he was a skinny pale programmer with glasses–they just didn't come any meeker than that.
"You got $1,000 bucks cash on you?"
"Exactly that, yeah," Lee replied. In fact, he had significantly more, but revealing that information would just put himself in more danger.
The auditor nodded and continued. "I'll get you a gun. Don't expect any change. You a light sleeper?"
"Yeah."
"I'll leave it by your door and knock. Expect me at any hour. The extra is mine. Deal?"
"Yeah, deal."
"Alright. Give me the cash."
Shit. The cash was bulked together. He didn't want to let the auditor see it.
"One second, it's in my case," Lee said.
Bending out of sight, he opened his bag, concealing it with his body, and counted $1,000 dollars from a manila envelope. $1,000 dollars seemed kind of cheap to Lee for a gun, but he didn't intend to actually kill anyone, so as long as the auditor got him something that could fire bullets, he'd be okay.
Lee closed the bag and stood, handing the guy the money as subtly as possible. The auditor leaned down and counted it.
"Alright. Go to your room," he said, pulling out his cellphone.
Lee nodded and left the lobby, feeling oddly relieved as he walked to his room. The night auditor could just bail with the money, but the guy was an employee, and if he ran Lee could call the police.
He opened the squeaky door to his room and walked inside. It looked cleaner than expected, but still disgusting by his standards.
After chaining shut the door, he sat down at the table and withdrew his laptop. The motel had free Wi-Fi, so he logged into the system and began additional research, looking for anything relating to recent events at Sherwood Hills.
He thought of Claire, and picked up his cellphone.
◊ ◊ ◊
Brandon Holt knocked on the glass patio door of the Thomas residence, but found the house eerily empty, which he considered strange. He cupped his hands on the glass and peered inside, but found no one around. Cameron trusted him and he trusted Cameron in return, so this sudden disappearance worried him, a fair feeling in his opinion. He went to Jack Evans's house and knocked, and after a moment Jack answered.
"You know where Cameron and family went?"
Jack yawned and scratched his arm. "They're not home?"
"Not as far as I can tell. Just knocked on their back door, looked through the glass–house seems completely empty."
Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "That's odd. Should I get my gun?"
"Seems like the best bet. Come with me to get mine."
Brandon followed Jack inside, waiting while his friend grabbed his gun from underneath the sink–a useless place to store it, but Brandon knew better than to bring that up now.
They crossed the mutual backyard to Brandon's house. Brandon knew that their neighbors’ suspicious eyes had to be upon the duo, but considering the circumstances–let them watch.
Jack followed him into the house, and Brandon grabbed his rifle from the umbrella stand by the door, hoping Jack took note of the convenient placement. A moment later they proceeded back to Cameron's house.
The lights were off, which wasn't uncommon considering the mid-morning sun, but the lack of movement and sound from inside the home gave Brandon chills, and he could tell by Jack's trepidation that both men felt in their gut that something was amiss. Jack peered inside. "Yeah, seems empty
alright," he said. "Is their car here?"
"I didn't check."
Jack walked around the house, Brandon following, and immediately saw Cameron's car sitting there parked, but something seemed off. Brandon thought something glimmered in the car. He approached, and as he did so he noticed first the crimson glow in the interior, then fifteen feet away the unthinkable–unmistakable and he gasped and stumbled back.
"Holy fuck!" he choked.
Jack saw it a moment after Brandon and darted backwards. "Oh God," Jack said, voice quivering. "The kid too?"
Brandon took a deep breath. "Looks like it."
"Jesus. They must have discovered someone. Or something. Shit. Jesus."
Brandon turned to the front door of the house. "It had to be the professor. I don't see him in there."
Taking his frustration and anger out on the nearest deserving object, Brandon kicked open the front door and stormed inside, Jack following him.
From the couch Shane jumped awake, shocked from the splintering explosion. Brandon and Jack stopped, stunned at seeing the murderer right before them, having expected him long gone or hiding. They simultaneously raised their guns as he raised his hands, eyes wide with shock.
"W-What's going on?" he asked, eyes darting back and forth at each gun.
"You killer!" Brandon yelled, slightly confused.
"What?"
"You killed them!"
Shane turned his gaze to Brandon. "I haven't killed anyone! Who's dead?"
Jack looked at Brandon, who kept his steady, albeit slightly confused gaze on Shane. "Cameron, Caroline, even Charlie, all dead right out front."
Shane looked dumbfounded. "What? Dead? Like killed?"
"Murdered in cold blood! Don't play innocent! It was obviously you!"
Shane shook his head, hands still raised. "What are you–I had no idea! This is crazy! Why would I kill them?"
"Because you're actually the alien in disguise!"
"That's crazy!" Shane said, looking at Jack. "Why would I go through all that trouble to tell you guys about the aliens, just to give it all up this idiotically? Listen to yourself guys. This is crazy!"
The Harbinger Break Page 15