Summers wanted to puke at the thought of Berry, blood hemorrhaging in his crushed skull. His futile attempts to remind himself that he had no choice did nothing to quell his guilt and angst, even though Berry was the reason his friend's life slowly bled away now. Except that wasn't true, and did nothing to ease his guilt, because he was the reason Penelope lay dying.
Summers smashed his hands on his steering wheel and violently shook his head.
How did that happen? Penelope must not have realized that he'd woken Berry while gathering his prints. Or maybe Berry had awoken by chance after they had left and he'd realized his keys were missing.
What a stupid, blotched plan, Summers thought. They should've strategized better, they should've had a back-up plan. For God's sake they should've locked the door to his office once they'd entered.
It was too late now, and Summers calmed himself with a few deep breaths. Without looking back, he grabbed Sam's folder and opened it in his lap, pulling over in an empty parking lot about six miles from the hospital.
He read page after page, which undeniably exposed GenDec as having cheated its preliminary tests and thus cheated its results. Then Summers thought back to his first conversation with Higgins. Something he'd said struck Summers as strange. At the time, he'd just blown it off, but now–what was it?
He pictured the man's tan, red-tinged face and saw his lips move.
"Then you don't know that much about my past."
That's what Higgins had said. Summers nodded and shut his eyes. So Higgins knew about his past, he knew that he'd been at GenDec illegally. But why?
Summers turned the page. There it was, his history:
"Sam Higgins, adopted, taken from the custody of the United States Coast Guard. Parents’ illegal immigration attempt neutralized. Parents killed en route from Cuba to United States when Higgins was a toddler. Guaranteed an American citizenship on completion of GenDec program."
Summers sighed. So Sam was Cuban, and Daniel Berry had his fingers in more pies than Summers had even imagined. He was curious enough to confront Higgins about the matter, but not before he'd used the information to compromise GenDec.
Summers checked his watch. It'd been an hour since he dropped Penelope off.
Starting his car, he began driving back towards the hospital–by that time, medical personnel should've stopped the bleeding, although they would have also called the police.
Well, regardless, it was time to discharge Penelope Plum early.
Summers donned the Physicians Assistant student lab coat and wig for safe measure, and entered the hospital through triage towards the front desk.
In his bag, Penelope had organized what he called 'The Con Kit,' which was filled with costumes and instructions on how to break into pretty much anywhere. Summers read the instructions for the hospital and prepared to repeat word for word what Penelope had instructed.
But the guard spoke first.
"Student?" he asked as Summers approached.
"Uh, yes."
"You're two hours early. Shift doesn't start until seven."
"Couldn't sleep."
The guard laughed. "You heard about the shooting, didn't you?"
Summers chuckled. The guard grinned. "Alright get in there," he said. "The charge nurse is Arlianne."
Summers nodded and smiled as the guard hit the buzzer and let him through.
He walked down the hall and into the ER. There were people on beds against walls around the hallway, and on one of the beds he saw Penelope.
Hospital procedure kept more critical patients or the patients requiring isolation in the rooms. They kept more stable patients or patients requiring supervision on the hallway beds.
The nurses scrambled back and forth as a constant universal beeping threatened to drill a hole through Summers’ brain. Blazing fluorescent lights made some of the hallway patients look pale and ghost-like. Penelope had his eyes closed, asleep, as a police officer stood by his bed, looking bored and somewhat annoyed.
He had to create a distraction, and quickly–hoping Penelope was either actually asleep or had the tact to keep faking it. The police officer standing by had his hand resting on his pistol. He had a constant, slight leg twitch–a sign that he was bored and restless. Which was good.
Summers knew enough about hospitals from his time on the force, and came up with a plan inspired by something he'd once seen.
First he had to find the right patient–and where better to start off than at bed one? He entered, but immediately left, finding there just an old woman. Beds two and three were the same. But bed four was perfect. A young drugged out guy lay, possibly sleeping, likely a recent overdose.
Perfect. Summers knew from experience that a majority of these patients didn't want to be in the hospital, but some purposely admitted themselves to get an intravenous line, as they couldn't find a vein themselves and an IV was perfect for certain drugs.
He entered the room as the kid blinked awake. The kid's eyes were bloodshot, his body frail and his face jagged.
"Hey," Summers said.
"Hey," the kid replied.
"We're discharging you. You ready to go?"
The kid looked stunned. "You're discharging me?"
"Yep. Grab your things."
The kid quickly hopped out of bed. Summers saw him look at the IV in his arm, then hide it, quickly covering it with his sweatshirt. He probably thought the hospital was making a mistake, but was more than happy to leave.
The kid eyed Summers skeptically. "So I'm free to go?"
"Yep."
"You sure?"
"That's what they told me."
The kid maintained his skeptical look, but gathered his things and left the room as Summers followed. But as the kid turned the corner Summers went in the opposite direction. Now he had to wait.
These addicts usually knew better than anyone how to sneak out of a hospital, and this kid seemed no different. Soon, he'd made his way out the back door without a single nurse or doctor saying a word about it. In more dilapidated areas such as this, ER nurses were usually too busy to notice anything, especially on nights like this one–regardless of how obvious to Summers it seemed.
He waited a minute and then walked into and out of the kid's room.
"The patient in room four is missing," he said to the nearest nurse.
The nurse raised an eyebrow at Summers, then walked to the room and peeked inside. She immediately returned to the hallways and with alarm told the police officer guarding Penelope. The officer nodded, barely hiding a grin, and left the bedside to search. A few male orderlies, paramedics, and nurses followed outside.
Acting fast, Summers approached Penelope and shook him, and he opened his eyes immediately.
"Nice one brother," he mouthed weakly.
He stood from the bed amid the chaos. The color returned to his face, but he now wore a hospital gown and he was hooked up to an IV.
Summers walked with Penelope to the bathroom and gave him the PA coat and the pair of pants he currently wore. Underneath, Summers wore scrubs, so he was still in disguise.
In seconds, Penelope was dressed and they left the bathroom. The ER still bustled from the recent addict escapee, and the awake, screaming, demented patients had the remaining nurses sprinting from bed to bed, back and forth.
An old woman grabbed Summers’ arm as he walked by and cried, "my leg hurts–I was a nurse–Please! I need more morphine!"
Summers nodded and told her he'd be right back. But he kept walking, knowing that any nurse who might have noticed the pair would think they were going outside to join the search.
But once out of the hospital–from the same exit the addict took, no less–they kept walking, keeping to shadows, and eventually made it to the car.
Penelope gave Summers a weak smile, a "I feel like shit, but well done," kind of look. A moment later, they were in the car, out of the parking lot, and hurtling down the road as a sliver of the sun peeked over the horizon.
&n
bsp; ◊ ◊ ◊
Sam listened to the recording on his phone again as he drove from the bakery, trying to wrap his head around the level of shit the country was in, which he decided was code black.
So everyone was poisoned and nobody could do anything about it. And what, exactly, was he then supposed to do? He wasn't even sure if his American citizenship could survive the spotlight. The last thing he needed was his identity under scrutiny.
He could always write to the mayor again–
Wait. The mayor.
Sam's blood turned cold. The mayor was found dead not long after Sam had sent his initial inquiry. What if the mayor had received his letter then out of curiosity investigated, which led to his death?
Sam shivered. Certainty and fear were gloves stained by bloodied nails, and his pulse pounded double-time. There was no shadow of a doubt–it was no coincidence that the mayor was found dead soon after Sam's letter. And as soon as word spread that Sam possessed undeniable evidence of the food being poisoned–he'd be next.
Would George out him? Sam couldn't know. He needed to hide–he needed protection.
His ignition roared and tires screeched as he reversed from Arlow Bakery's parking lot. Heading east towards the I-95 byway, he wondered who he could trust. Definitely not the police, which was the reason he took the byway as opposed to the highway or skyway. The two latter were monitored, and Sam realized with a hint of regret that he'd soon need to abandon his trusty Civic and obtain a new car, one unregistered to his name.
So who could he trust? He had no friends or family, and his list of acquaintances was as short as his list of known survival skills.
He thought first of the Special Agent Summers. Could he be trusted? He seemed nice enough, sort of conceited, but maybe that was just Sam reflecting. No, it was out of the question. He was a federal agent–none could be trusted.
How about Pat? Sam shook his head–hell no–he'd rather die then crawl back to that lunatic. The whole reason he'd gone off and investigated the food was solely because he wanted to outshine Pat–to claim the hero title Pat desired. Crawling back to him now and sharing his glory was out of the question.
Could he trust Claire? Of course, aside from the fact that she already wanted him dead? Sam sighed–thinking of her only depressed him, and the fact that she wouldn't mind his death was nothing if not hurtful.
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 stil
l 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.
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