Chapter 3
Special Agent Chris Summers crashed onto his couch, kicked off his shoes and turned on the television. He sighed, leaning back, glad to finally be home–regardless of how run-down his home was.
He glanced around his one beDr.oom flat. Wooden floors concealed by a cheap brown rug with a green leaf pattern, a lightly torn brown couch, an unmade bed, and large speakers against the wall by the window–proof enough that someone lived there. He'd grabbed the speakers at a garage sale, five bucks each, eight for the set–not bad after he fixed them, and he kept his rock n' roll disks stacked on top. His television, coated in a thick layer of dust, sat on the rug across from his coffee table, and beside his couch on the wall hung a painting of some odd colored mountains that the previous owner left. He liked how it looked.
His cellphone rang, and he sighed as his relaxation interrupted. It was the office. Probably Paige.
"Summers speaking."
"Agent Summers."
He recognized her soft voice immediately.
"Hey Paige."
"How's the case?"
He sighed. "It's coming along… Actually, I just scratched a disk. I need a second." He added a slow inflection to 'scratched a disk'.
"Alright, call me back."
"Will do."
He hung up. A moment later, she called back, personal number this time. He answered.
"Paige."
"Hey handsome."
"What's going on?"
"Barnes has been up my ass these past few days, wondering what's the–"
"Can you say that differently?"
"What differently?"
He sighed again. She continued.
"Alright fine. He's been down my throat."
"Not better."
She laughed. "I've been covering for you Chris, but we need a progress report or he's going to transfer you."
"Gotchya."
"What have you got?"
"I've spoken to a few known associates of Shane's. This case is proving just as difficult as we thought it'd be. He's psychotic, but the question of nature verses nurture is at heart of it as usual. Of those from GenDec whom I've spoken, it seems he's been conditioned to insanity. Except I can't paint that picture. He's committed heinous crimes–he deserves whatever punishment he receives, but from what I can tell, he'd been tortured to submission in that direction."
"You sure?"
"I can't be, Paige. I need to investigate GenDec. Can you pull some strings upstairs?"
"I'll see what I can do. Give me the formal report in five."
"Alright. Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
He hung up and sat back in the sofa, thinking about what he would say. Pat Shane was, by the standard, crazy–but also a hero, at least in his own mind.
◊◊◊
Claire Waltz's plane landed in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, a little after three in the afternoon. She wasn't thrilled to return this close to GenDec, but she had to find Higgins. She wanted–no–needed to find out what he remembered.
She rented a black sedan, took the Skyway to Pompano, then Dr.ove to 1312 Red Gable Dr.ive, where her IT friend Lee had located a plausible Sam Higgins.
Lee was also in love with her, which was useful.
She parked the car and approached the pink little bungalow, knocking twice on the door. Turning around, facing the street, she studied her nails, analyzing the perfection of her French manicure while waiting for a response, which seemed to be taking a while.
She grimaced. How degrading was this? Her, calling on someone else. But this was personal, and she couldn't just call a favor and send anyone. He might know things. Things she'd hoped nobody remembered and had in stock to share.
There was no answer, so she knocked again. Lee had called her earlier, told her that he was alive and had been rescued over a day before. Plus, a silver Honda Accord sat in the Dr.iveway, so she knew he had to be home. What was keeping him? Had Patches come back and done something?
Finally, she heard rustling inside the home. Someone had their face planted upon the eyehole of the door. A second later, the door opened, and a large, tan, seemingly blushing man appeared.
◊◊◊
He remembered running, but the rest was fuzz and froth in Pat's mind, slowly settling.
A man in a duster jacket entered the screened in area, Pat looked–but he vanished–nothing there. Looking down at his hands, Pat twiddled his thumbs, or maybe they were twiddling themselves. But they were also bleeding, and he didn't know how or why. What was happening? Think.
"THINK GODDAMMIT!"
A voice–who? He spun, but nothing. Ghosts were having parties in the corners of his eyes–if he looked they vanished. Some had guns, others were taunting him, silently screaming, rushing towards him, bleeding tears. He looked and they disappeared. Cackling, laughing–or were those crickets?
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY BACK YARD!"
Pat's pupils smashed back and forth in slow motion, the pendulum of a grandfather clock, striking twelve every second. But they saw nothing–observed no one. He was forcing his brain to think. Need to eat. Where? Where? He remembered running. He knew pi to the 100th digit, and attempted to recite it, to help him focus. "Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine seven nine three point one four one five nine two six five three point one four one fine too sick."
It was no use. He'd run all night, hiding from the light. Nothing to Dr.ink, nothing to eat. He sat huddled in the corner of someone's backyard, a backyard his subconscious clicked at, pointing at (waitaminute … nevermind) as he held his knees to his chest and glanced around, wondering how he'd arrived wherever he was.
A heavy shutter smashed in his mind, followed by a high-pitched whine–and a blinding light engulfed his vision, blocking out everything else. A police officer with a flashlight appeared. Pat raised his hand to his face, casting a deep shadow along his eyes.
He blinked once to adjust–but with that blink the cop, along with the backyard, vanished.
The world changed. Instead of the screened-in patio at night, now the sun was in his eyes–he was in a playground, chilDr.en spinning and singing, their voices echoing inside his head, their laughter going on and on for an eternity. He lowered his hand and glanced around, but he couldn't recognize this place. So then he–
Blink.
A blaring horn deafened him. His hands shot up to the sides of his head, covering–defending his ears. The night sky threatened to crush him, and he stood in the middle of the road–a truck headed right for him, blinding him with its headlights. He stumbled back, eyes wide, mouth agape and–
Blink.
The shutter smashed again. A camera? "Great smile. One more picture–and this time, Patches–no funny faces."
Blink.
A hum resounded, like the inside of a Dr.yer–metallic spinning–but parallel to the ground, flooring upwards.
He was laying on some kind of sheet metal operating table. A bright light attempted to blind him, illuminating the fright on his face, and hands groped and prodded him. Hands–but those were no ordinary hands.
Blink. Those hands were long, and that wasn't a normal skin color. Blink. They were going for his eyes. Blink. Blink. They were scratching his eyes! Blink blink blink blink–
But nothing. Trapped–something cold and metallic held open his eyes. "What do you want from me!" Pat screamed.
They (whoever they were) looked all around–the sclera of their eyes, so large and yellow, their pupils, so black, pin points, their eyes were moving too much, and too quickly, bragging–he couldn't move–but his hands! They didn't restrain his hands!
He lifted them to his face, ripped off the apparatus, and sat up. They scurried backwards. No mouths, but they could talk. "Take it easy, son, we're not going to hurt you."
"Where am I?"
Blink.
He was back in the screened-in area of someone's backyard, surrounded by three cops, an old man,
and a Great Dane.
Blink.
The operating room again. The metallic table was nearby, and on it sat a knife. He picked it up.
"Where am I!?"
"Son, if you keep screaming you'll wake the neighbors!"
He lunged, tackling the nearest big eyes, knife poised. He stabbed.
Blink.
Blood spurted from the tiny body of a child. ChilDr.en screamed.
Blink.
A police officer, bleeding on the ground.
"Get him off me! 10-24, officer down!"
Blink.
Long fingers all over his body, not gripping but rubbing, his mind was on fire, metal all around him, he stabbed the big eyes again–lost and scared.
Without warning, his body hovered into the air, froze, then flew backwards.
Blink.
He flew through the air, hitting an encampment and rolling down a hill. The truck screeched to a halt, blood painted on its bumper and windshield.
The Dr.iver stormed out of the truck. "Fuck buddy, are you nuts? Charging at a truck? What the fuck!" He bent over Pat. "Shit… Oh please don't be dead, this ain't my fucking fault!"
Pat couldn't move, his legs and arms wouldn't budge–he was paralyzed.
Blink.
Cops were holding him down. One cop far from Pat was screaming. "Don't die on me, Frankie! It's just a flesh wound! Do you hear me? A flesh wound!" A police officer had his hands pressed down on the bloody chest of another. Blood soaked the ground, so much blood, it Dr.enched the whole backyard, too much blood.
Blink.
ChilDr.en with inhuman strength were all around him, growling and crying, holding him down, torrents of mucous Dr.ipping from every orifice. Pat jerked, but couldn't break free.
Blink.
"Hey buddy, you okay?" a voice whispered, echoing around the blades of grass. Woods. No, it was the truck Dr.iver again. Something howled, concealed in the forest. Gray clouds raced in front of the moon.
Blink.
Cops holding his arms and legs, the Great Dane standing above him, growling, Dr.ooling.
Blink.
The street at night, but something felt different–maybe it was the wind. He was alone in an intersection, old buildings surrounded him, to his right was a park, beyond the park a lake. A few people, couples with arms around each other spoke quietly, whispering and laughing. At him? Where was he? Something was wrong. Something was throwing and tumbling his mind. He had one concise thought, one goal–he needed Sam. He had to find Sam.
Last he saw, they were loading Sam into an ambulance.
An ambulance. Walking down the street in a daze, too scared to blink, Pat stumbled onward.
His ears perked. A siren. Sam? He followed the noise, first trotting, then sprinting. Down the street, yes, lights, what luck–maybe he had only been out for a few hours, maybe that was Sam.
He looked up at the sky and saw it, the ambulance, wheels retracted, thrusting through the low fog. It approached, landing somewhere near him. He sprinted towards it as it descended. It was landing so near, what luck!
It parked. The medics hopped out and went around back to unload the stretcher, then sprinted with it into the building. Pat heard yelling from inside–a stabbing?
Oh well. Running to the ambulance, he systematically checked the doors. They locked the back, the Dr.iver’s side, the passenger door, he checked the chassis door on the passenger side–unlocked!
People were running around the building–nobody would notice him. He darted inside, closed the door behind him and locked it. There was a bench to his left, in front was the captain's chair, and to the right was the cabin. He hopped through the small opening and sat down in the Dr.iver's seat. On the console to his right were two radios, countless switches, and a knob. He hit the switch labeled THRUST and immediately the ambulance shook and lifted slightly off the ground. The steering wheel loosened from its hold on the dash. He could push it in and out and slide it side to side. He pulled it out, only slightly, and the ambulance began to rise into the air.
"Charlie three–" dispatch croaked over the radio.
Pat ignored it and kept rising. He rose above the building and looked around. The sky was empty.
"Charlie three, you've engaged thrust. Are you 51 with patient?"
Pat didn't respond. He pushed the power button on the radio and turned it off. Then he noticed–blood on his finger? Wait, blood on his hands? Where was Sam?
But the thought evaporated as quickly as it'd surfaced. He was flying an ambulance, he had to hide, he had to get out of there.
He pushed the steering wheel upwards, and the ambulance sped forwards. He knew he was heading north, he needed to head south. That was the way back home, to Sam's house. Sam would be there.
He turned the steering wheel, and the ambulance began to pivot in place. Easy enough. He pressed the wheel upwards again and flew through the fog.
Now flying comfortably, he tried to organize his thoughts. His mind was fragmented, like it had been through a shredder–and he slowly taped together the pieces. Random memories–some real, some imagined–flashed through his brain.
He felt the electrotherapy of GenDec, it felt so real, nausea bubbled from the pit of his stomach. He shook his head and kept flying.
Suddenly, sirens erupted from far off. Without thinking, he flipped the switch labeled MASTER and the lights in the ambulance turned off. He pushed in the steering wheel and the ambulance began to descend quickly.
He reached the ground, flipped off the THRUST switch, and a moment later his wheels were on the ground, although he had no idea where he was. He turned off the headlights, turned off the truck, and darkness engulfed him.
Sirens faded away, and Pat felt his racing heart slow. He was lucky–if they'd caught him he'd have had no excuse. He couldn't explain the visions, he had no recollection of where he'd been–of however long it'd been since he sprinted from the hotel.
That was the last thing he remembered, sprinting from the Quarter Moon Inn. That was when his thoughts grew hazy and the next somewhat solid memory he could form was the man in the duster from the screened in area, although whether that man was real or imaginary remained a mystery.
The sirens melted with the fog of the night and he wondered if he'd imagined them. He'd been flying for at least thirty, maybe forty minutes. The thrust-enabled ambulances were new, he was surprised at how vulnerable they were to theft.
He looked around, but couldn't tell where he was. Turning the ambulance back on, he flipped on the master, then the floodlights to illuminate his surroundings.
◊◊◊
Cameron Thomas jumped to his feet as a blinding light blasted through his house from the backyard. He resided in Sherwood Hills, Georgia, and in their neck of the woods, life never yielded anything out of the ordinary, which is what made the blinding light easy to disbelieve, at least at first.
Sherwood Hills was a small, somewhat-religious neighborhood, built separate from modern civility by his friend and developer Jack Evans.
Cameron lived with his wife and son. His wife was in bed, his son asleep, and he danced between reality and the Dr.eam world in the living room as the flickering blue light from his television illuminated his face, when his home was filled with a blinding light erupting from his backyard.
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head–he was exhausted, and considered the light as just a trick of his brain, but the light persisted and curiosity Dr.agged his legs from his couch and to the backyard, where it seemed to originate.
Then he saw it–a UFO in his backyard, sitting in the grassy field in the center of the neighborhood's mutual backyard. He rubbed his eyes, yet it persisted, and reality struck home. He ran back inside, up the stairs, and shook his wife awake.
"Caroline!"
She stirred, blinked a few times, and took off her reading glasses. She was under the covers, and had fallen asleep with her glasses on and book in hand.
"What?" she asked, slu
rring sleepily.
"UFO. Backyard! Quickly!"
She sat up on her pillows. "Cameron, calm down. What?"
"You have to come with me right now! Quickly!"
She shook the sleep from her head, put on slippers, and as soon as she stood Cameron grabbed her hand and Dr.agged her down the stairs, through the house, and into the backyard, where her eyes and mind forgot all about sleep.
There it was, a real UFO in their backyard, blasting their home with an impenetrable light. A few neighbors nearby had noticed the light as well and began wandering outside, gathering from their homes to surround the UFO, but were too afraid to approach.
Brandon Holt shouted from his patio. "What's going on Cameron? Is that a UFO?"
"You bet it is, Holt!"
With a rumble and a thrust, the UFO began rising, and the neighborhood gasped. "I don't believe it!" yelled SanDr.a Evans.
And into the air it rose, higher and higher, then the lights flickered off. It became a speck and flew south, disappearing into the night.
◊◊◊
Excerpt from United States President Morgan Scott's fifth Presidential Directive: Technological and Genetic Security Advancement - October 1, 1981:
The advances and programs outlined in this directive will guide the long-term development of our strategic forces. This will adDr.ess the obvious technological gap and inherent weaknesses of our defenses against the possible extra-terrestrial invasion. The result will improve our current security and stimulate future technological growth.
It is important to bear in mind that the following mutually reinforcing parts, although inherently radical, are necessary to ensure the survival of not just our country, but also our planet.
(1) Tax relief for technological research and development institutions, focusing on aeronautics and space technology. A catalyst for immediate growth.
(2) Implementation of the Federal Bureau of Eugenics, responsibilities include guiding the evolution of man, leading to stable, more intelligent future generations.
(3) Research and development into chemical means to improve human intelligence.
(4) Increasing accuracy, payload, and construction speed of Probe Launched Ballistic Missiles (PLBM) and general increased research and development into space warfare technology.
(5) Research and development of satellite reconnaissance relays from Europa.
ANY financial resources required for the completion of the program directed by this decision must be derived from currently planned and approved Defense budget allocations.