The Harbinger Break Read Online Free PDF

unwanted break in his routine–and if his manager ever decided to call him in then, he wouldn't mind.
       Poochie scrambled up to him and rolled onto her back. Sam scooped her and carried her over to the brown felt couch, sat down and turned on the television. Scanning the channels, he finally settled on an old rerun of The Twilight Zone.
       He chuckled to himself, as most did, wondering if Rod Sterling only knew how right he'd be. The episode, 'How to Serve Man' was particularly troubling in this day and age.
       He thought it odd that he had to change the channel to get to this station–that instead, the television had been set to the news. He never watched anything but fiction, intentionally avoiding the news, as it only troubled him when he watched.
       But with a growl of his stomach, the thought was replaced, and he went through his kitchen, first to the back patio door to let Poochie wander the backyard before returning to the kitchen to grab some grub, regretting that he finished his fast food on the car ride home.
       But as he shut his patio door the phone rang. Probably a telemarketer, he thought, so he let it go to voicemail and opened his fridge.
       Looking around for something to munch on, a wordless idea nagged at the back of his mind, and he soon noticed that his fridge's contents looked a little different. He had his diet coke, sure, leftover Chinese–likely rotten–eggs, bacon, pudding, milk–
       –Wait. His orange juice was missing. He checked the trash and sure enough found the empty carton. He didn't remember finishing it, but he wiped the thought from his mind and returned disappointed to the fridge, grabbing milk instead.
       The thought bothered him, and as he poured himself a glass he tried to remember when he'd finished the carton, but couldn't. It wasn't that odd though, he couldn't expect to recall every time he'd finished everything. No, he'd probably just forgotten.
       His machine beeped, and someone began leaving him a message. It was Agent Summers, sounding anxious.
       "Mr Higgins, if you're at home–stay put and lock your doors. Pat Shane escaped, we don't know how long ago. A cruiser is on its way now. Lock your doors, a cruiser is on its way."
       Click. Sam lowered the glass from his lips. What was it Summers had said about Pat? He murdered someone? That he would've come for Sam next?
       His heart skipped a beat and the glass slipped from his sweating hands and shattered on the floor in an explosion of milk. He felt salt in his eyes, droplets on his cheeks, and unsure whether he was sweating, crying, or both.
       How could this happen? He never did anything to anyone! Before the agent, the last conversation he'd had had been with his boss two weeks ago, and it was just a "good job, Higgins, keep it up". He never bothered anyone, never did anything, why on earth would somebody want him dead? He was nobody!
       He ran to the front door. It was locked. He sighed, relieved. But then like an instant replay he remembered: when he'd let Poochie out–the back door hadn't been locked!
       His stomach fell with his breath, hunger forgotten. He tasted silver in his tonsils, his mouth arid and dry. Pat was in his house, with a weapon to kill him, right now, and Sam was too slow and too late–where were the police? Pat escaped? They let him escape? Sam moaned with fear and frustration.
       Thinking fast, he dashed to the kitchen counter and grabbed the largest knife in the set. He spun around and slashed behind him, expecting Pat to pop out of nowhere.
       "Pat?"
       No response.
       "Pat! You here?"
       Nothing. Heat gathered in waves around him. The room seemed to pulse, or maybe that was an aneurism behind his eyes.
       He broke into a sloppy sprint, opening the patio door and lumbering into his backyard. He didn't know what to do, but wait–he had to find Poochie, where was she? He glanced around. It was too dark to see anything aside from the