Summers stepped off the bed, wobbled then steadied himself.
"Chris, you aren't okay to drive!"
"There's no time Paige! Where's my gun?" He looked down. "Where are my pants?"
She stifled a laugh and pointed. "Your pants are over there, hot shot. Your gun's in my car."
He ran over, grabbed his pants from the back of the chair and pulled them on. Then he slipped on his shoes. He wobbled as he did so, and had to use the back of the chair to steady himself. Paige was right–he wasn't okay to drive. It was the painkillers–he had to negate them.
He shuffled out of the room. A nurse approached from the other end of the hallway, and he continued towards her.
"Can I help you?" the nurse asked.
He continued towards her and bumped into her. As he did so, he unclipped her ID badge and key from the waist of her pants.
"Sorry. Bathroom," he said.
"You know there's a bathroom in your room."
He shrugged. Paige gave him a curious, somewhat angry look, then approached the nurse and started a meaningless conversation.
Summers turned the corner and entered the nurses’ station, finding it empty. In the corner of the room was a large glass drug case. He took the nurse's ID and scanned it in the machine's computer. When prompted, he typed in Narcan, followed by the dose, eight milligrams. He then took the nurse's key, unlocked the glass door, and withdrew a small vial.
He scrambled through the drawers, and finally found two syringes–one empty, and one filled with saline.
Taking the empty syringe, he stuck the needle through the rubber top of the vial, and filled it with almost eight milligrams of Narcan.
Then he poked the needle into his IV, and injected two milligrams slowly, flushing it with saline afterwards. He shook his head and wobbled, but there was no time to delay.
He put the cap back on the syringe now filled with Narcan, grabbed three extra syringes of saline, and left the nurses station. About a minute had passed since he'd taken the nurse's badge and key.
When he reentered the hallway he saw Paige still talking with the nurse. The nurse had her back to him. He placed the ID on the floor, then got Paige's attention.
She excused herself, and they reentered his room.
"What'd you do?" she asked once inside, somewhat angrily.
"I took Narcan. It counteracts the effects of painkillers. I'm good to drive now. We have to get moving."
Paige looked out the window of their door. "The nurse is still there," she said.
"As soon as she leaves, we bail."
They watched the nurse bend down, pick up her ID, then walk away. They waited a couple more seconds, then the pair made their way from the room.
The two of them left the hospital, Summers still in his gown and Paige protesting that he was still under the effects of the painkiller. He reassured her that the Narcan had taken effect, and that he was fine.
After a moment they found her car. He hopped into the drivers seat, she the passenger, and he sparked the ignition.
"Paige, I need a favor," he said as they sat in the parking lot.
She looked at him. "Oh God. What?"
He withdrew the syringe with Narcan and another with saline from his pocket. "I need you to stick me."
She closed her eyes and shook her head.
"Paige," he said. "Please."
She sighed and took the syringes from his hand. He held out his arm.
"Thank you," he said. "Only inject two of those black lines. Do it as slow as possible, and afterwards you need to push the saline, slowly."
Grumbling, she aligned the needle.
"You're lucky I love you," she said.
She injected the Narcan, and he couldn't tell if it was the effect of the drug or the bomb she'd just dropped that caused his head to spin.
"I love you too," he said as he grinned.
Exactly an hour and ten minutes later, Summers and Paige screeched to a stop in front of a condemned apartment complex. Rumors of hauntings at the building had spread for years, but Summers knew those rumors spread because of Shane. Two deaths had occurred on site, both ruled accidents, but Summers knew better.
"Where are we?" Paige asked.
"Shane's hideout. I've been here once and almost died. This is where he hid after he escaped from GenDec, and this is likely where his fear of aliens manifested. It's entirely booby-trapped."
They exited the car and looked across the parking lot at one other car.
"It has Georgia plates," Paige said. "Shane and Ron just drove here from Savannah."
Summers nodded. There was no question. Pat Shane and Ron Howard were here. He just hoped it wasn't too late.
There was an opening in the fence on the east side of the building, out of view from the street, and Summers motioned to Paige to follow him quietly.
He lifted a gap in the chain link fence, and allowed Paige to crawl through first. He followed, and let the fence fall quietly behind him.
On the side of the decrepit building there was a slanted wooden door on the ground that led to the basement. He pulled it open quietly, and allowed Paige through first.
"Wait," he said once they were both through the door, and pulled out a flashlight, holding it in his injured arm.
He searched the floor with the narrow beam. They were at the top of a set of stairs. Thick wisps of dust floated in the light, and Paige covered her mouth with her shirt.
"Wait here," Summers said. "Use the light on your cellphone. If I'm not back in thirty minutes, call the police. Ignore the gunfire until then. If you hear footsteps, run, because if it's me approaching, I'll call out."
In the dim light he saw her give him a concerned look, but agree. He continued down carefully.
At the foot of the stairs his flashlight revealed a thin wire cutting horizontally across the floor. A trip wire. He followed it to the corner of the room and upwards to the ceiling, where a lose two by four with an exposed nail hung perilously.
He stepped over the wire and proceeded, hoping that the wire was the last of Shane's defense.
Summers would've called the police, told them that this is where they could find Shane, but he knew they'd underestimate Shane's odd method of defense and someone would get hurt. Besides, Shane had to die–he couldn't risk another arrest. Too many lives at stake.
He stepped over one more trip wire, then walked to the door in the back of the room. As he approached, he heard muffled screaming and a low voice.
Unhesitating, he drew his gun.
◊ ◊ ◊
High above the condemned apartment complex and even higher, above Jacksonville, past Florida, through silver clouds and past the United States, above North America, into the atmosphere and higher still until the cold Northern Hemisphere emanated with a blue, shivering energy–a galactic silence was shattered. A satellite exploded, and orange fire engulfed metal shards and hurled them downwards. What had shattered the satellite was invisible when looked at from the bottom, as diodes refracted light and mirrored what would have been seen by stargazing eyes, so those stargazing eyes saw only what they expected to see. They did not–could not see the extra-terrestrial starship now orbiting just outside Earth's atmosphere.
◊ ◊ ◊
So with a kick, Summers burst through the door. There was a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Tied down to a chair was Ron Howard, with a rag in his mouth, bleeding from countless cuts, and head resting on his chest, seemingly unconscious. Standing beside him was Shane, knife drawn and bloodied.
Shane turned as Summers entered. His eyes widened.
"No!"
Summers didn't hesitate. With three quick rounds he leveled Shane, who collapsed backwards heavily onto the floor.
Blood seeped from the wounds in Shane's chest. Summers approached and checked for vitals, putting two fingers on his neck for a pulse. But he felt nothing. Shane was dead. Finally.
He turned to Ron Howard and removed the rag. Ron breathed shallow
ly.
"It's alright," Summers said. "You're safe."
Ron didn't respond. Summers grabbed a pressure point on his shoulder and squeezed, but Ron didn't budge. He tilted Ron's head back and pried open an eye, intending to check Ron's pupils with his flashlight for a reaction to light, a test for brain activity.
But what Summers saw instead made him stumble back in shock.
Through Ron's pupil, clear as day Summers saw what appeared to be metal, silver with a black horizontal line cutting across.
Summers whispered to himself. "What the–?"
At that moment, Ron's head lifted and his eyes opened. His mouth began to move.
"Chris Summers. None of your kind will survive. Our condolences."
Summers narrowed his brow, confused.
"Ron? What's going on?" he said. "Are you alright?"
Ron's mouth continued to move, but the manner in which he spoke gave Summers the impression that the mind inside the body remained unconscious.
"The universal design is unbeatable," Ron's body said. "We tried to win. We have failed once again."
Summers shook his head and studied Ron. He noted the metal bar behind Ron's eyes. He observed the way Ron now spoke. He also made note of Shane's odd behavior after the chaos of the debate. It all fit the puzzle, but he didn't want to see the picture. He couldn't. Please, no.
As if reading his mind, Ron spoke. "Ron Howard is not one of us. He knew not of our existence in his mind. We used him simply to observe your species. He was one of thousands."
Summers closed his eyes and took a breath. Everything needed to be reevaluated, nothing was the same. Not only had the rug been swept from underneath him, but it was as if the four walls and the ceiling disappeared as well, and gravity ceased to exist. Nothing–nothing made sense.
He willed himself with every ounce of his being to stay collected, to remain grounded. What did this all mean?
Summers finally spoke. "Why?"
The voice responded. "The universe is an unbeatable game. All intelligent life that has ever existed destroyed itself before advancing enough technologically to colonize space."
Summers shook his head and closed his eyes. He glanced at the corpse of Shane on the floor, and at that moment almost wished he hadn't killed him. "I don't understand," he said.
"Centuries ago, our race destroyed itself. All intelligent life or evidence of it we've found has destroyed itself. War, famine, exhaustion of resources, etcetera. Always one way or another. Your species is, unfortunately, no different."
This was too much for him–this would be too much for anyone.
Every human being that ever was has created their own personal explanation of life and the universe, and Summers was no different. In his mind, he had an answer for everything. An answer that comforted him, that let him fall asleep at night unafraid. God? Of course. Intelligent design? By all means. Heaven and Hell? Sure. Meaning? Definitely.
Every human being that ever was has created their own explanation, and no matter what anyone could say against their explanation–it could never be claimed false, claimed wrong. People could speculate about the truth, even quote some science to back up their explanation, but the truth regarding life has always been disputable.
Until now.
Summers felt his world crumble around him, mountains turn to dust and oceans evaporate. He was completely naked, crouched inside a shell surrounded by infinite black on all sides. Could it be true? Could the aliens be correct in their explanation of the Universe? Was life, as they suggested, meaningless?
Summers opened his eyes. He felt neither fear nor confusion. All he felt was anger, and he directed it all at the puppet that was Ron's body.
"You destroyed us! Your species created this paranoia. You created this conflict. This is your fault–you're wrong!"
"It was not our intention. We positioned ourselves as a goal for humanity to reach. To advance enough technologically to meet us in space. We sought to be whom your species would unite against and aspire towards. Instead, strife is as it always is and conflicting intelligent minds fought–some catalyzed by greed, others hunger, more still fear. Corruption halting noble interests. The universe is unbeatable. The Creator's system is flawless in its unsolvable design."
"We would've survived if you hadn't come!"
"Is that what you believe?"
"Yes."
"Then…"
Ron's body paused, and Summers held his breath.
After a few seconds, Ron's body continued. "Then we shall leave. My species has not left much time before our own extinction, and we agree unanimously that the end of your species is also nigh–that your species, too, has lost the game. But for your sake, Chris Summers, I hope we are mistaken."
At that moment, the rags binding Ron's wrists disintegrated, and his body floated into the air. A white light emanated around him, originating from his eyes.
"Farewell, and good luck," Ron's body said.
Then, with a blinding flash, he vanished.
Epilogue:
A week later, after the initial aftermath, after the media declared it simultaneously the start of a brand new day and the end of the world, Summers lay sprawled upon a chaise lounge on the beach. To his left was a drink, a mudslide–because why not? And to his right lay none other than Paige.
Soon after Ron's body vanished into thin air, a photograph of Europa revealed that the aliens had evacuated. The extra-terrestrial threat was gone, thus the media proclaimed, "Humanity is saved!"
But that same day, thousands of people across the globe were seen hovering into the air, shrouded in white light, then vanishing. Religious leaders proclaimed this to be Rapture: the prelude to the Judeo-Christian apocalypse.
Panic and celebration filled the streets, but only for a few hours. Later that same day, those whom had vanished reappeared within walking distance from where they had been last seen. They reappeared confused and disoriented, but with a full recollection of their lives excluding the moment just before they vanished, the moment of their return, and the time in-between.
Summers thought back on all of this and everything as he lay on the beach. After a moment, he turned to Paige, shielding his eyes from the sun, and said, "I think I've finally figured out Pat Shane."
Paige looked at him. She was absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and Summers was just glad to be alive, even if life, as the aliens suggested, lacked meaning.
"Go ahead," Paige said with a grin and twinkling eyes. "Astound me."
"I think what it comes down to is that Shane couldn't allow himself to believe that human beings had caused him so much strife and anguish," Summers said. "He believed that aliens had replaced people not because it was the most logical explanation, but because, to him, it was the most bearable. It was easier for him to believe that the aliens could be so terrible than believe that other people could."
Summers shrugged and continued. "You could say he had more faith in humanity than anyone."
"Chris... You still had to do what you did," Paige said. "Regardless of the fact that the aliens were actually here as he'd thought–his method of expunging them would have led to countless deaths. He was wrong, however his reasons weren't entirely."
Summers nodded. "Yeah, you're right."
Paige sat up. She looked down at Summers and stroked her fingertips on his chest. "So when are you going to tell me the full story about what went on down there in the basement?"
Summers paused for a moment before responding. "I'll tell you on the road."
"On the road? We're going somewhere?"
Summers grinned. "Anywhere. Anywhere you want, Paige–you choose."
"When?"
"Today." He hopped onto his knees and pecked her lips quickly. "Right now, even."
Paige blushed and grinned, although she had an eyebrow raised. "Chris, I don't understand. Why?"
He hopped to his feet and took her hand.
"Because," he said. "I think it's high time we invent our own mean
ing, instead of looking to others and looking to the heavens to tell us. Let's go far away from here and find it for ourselves."
So they walked, hand in hand, as far, far above the Voyager 1 drifted slowly to the edge of the galaxy. And they had a lot of catching up to do.
The End
The Harbinger Break Page 29