Fleeting visions came and went, like tiny bubbles of dream material bursting to reveal only snippets of scenario not quite visceral, yet clearly understandable. His senses prevailed beyond his mindlessness, remained acute, and amidst the prominent haze obscuring his consciousness, the visual smatterings of controllable thought continued to flash in his mind's eye, maintaining his awareness of existence, of his true identity.
Harold Gross, Harbinger for the Giver.
In the past he had been only one or the other, Harold or Harbinger. But now? His feelings clearly spelled out an intermingling of the two personalities, a partial retention of each of the two people, a perfect combination of the two perhaps. Even now, in his swoon, the ability to comprehend this newfound state of being seemed easy, clear and precise.
However, although his mind had seemed to keep up its execution, the complication of his incapacitated body had him puzzled. Although he tried and tried for what seemed like hours, he could not coerce movement into his limbs, his mind straining at its unsuccessful effort. So he lay dormant, for now at least, waiting in the dark of this strange room, concentrating solely on his mind and the growing wealth of lucidity seeping through. It seemed his only viable alternative.
Suddenly something else broke through to his working cognitive mind, and he immediately cleared his psyche of all inner activity in effort to concentrate solely on the distant sound.
Oh yes...it was here.
The pulse. The Giver. It was coming for him.
Jaimie awoke, unsure of the time that had passed. She lay in darkness, unbound, yet mysteriously paralyzed. In the distance she heard the incessant beat of music, heavy bass drums, deep droning tones. Techno music. The sensation of it reverberated through the floor directly into her muscles and bones, tingling them. It brought the sensation of feeling back into her skin and she tried to move. Pain darted through her body in tiny bolts, each joint, every muscle discomforted in its effort to find itself once again.
She remembered her crude passage through the strange nightclub, the sleek jet walls, the humid air and blue neon lights. And then the giant dance floor, its workers so intensely involved in their project that her presence had gone unnoticed.
Those workers. The bald men, black clothing, sunglasses, all a part their facade. These individuals could not simply be nightclub employees, could they? No. They possessed other motives; she had witnessed terrifying aspects of their mission. The hypnotic-like exchanges with other men for instance, men unlike themselves, seemingly willing to be captured and taken away into their alien grasp. Was this perhaps a method toward recruitment? And what of the one from her class who later emerged from the hedges, entrenched in blood? The one that had been so intent on killing her when she bore witness to his aftermath?
Jaimie shuddered, realizing that her glimpses of these bald men were most likely small pieces to the puzzle of their true purpose. How many of them had there been in that room? A hundred? Maybe more. How many had had blood on their hands at one time? All of them of course. Like Bobby Lindsay—he was here.
Jaimie suddenly realized that her eyes had been closed, seeking light within her inner lids. She opened them, but nothing in her sights changed. Darkness prevailed, and amidst it her thoughts sought solace but found only anguish with the realization that she was a prisoner, here in the realm of some crazed cult of death.
The pulse grew louder, and with each passing beat, Harold's strength grew as well. He squirmed in his binds, wrists and ankles tethered to the bed cart he lay on. Thrum...thrum...thrum..., each three second interval forcing energy into his muscles, erotic images of power and strength into his mind. He tugged and tugged at his binds, more forcefully, his muscles screaming, lactic acid veining within, adrenaline flowing, blood pumping.
And the pulse grew even louder. Now he could hear it from rising below, from deep within the earth but growing closer with each beat, thrum...thrum...thrum. Now, he felt it just beneath him. The bed cart shook, and he pulled and pulled on the leather belts, images of failure in the eyes of the Giver threatening him with abandonment should he not escape the Outsiders. Layers of skin ripped away from his wrists against the edges of the hardened leather restraints. Finally, one hand broke free. He unfettered himself from the belt hampering his other wrist, then from those at his ankles.
And the pulse grew louder and louder and louder...
He sat up, an all-consuming blanket of blue light ensconcing his mind's-eye, and within his thoughts he could see the same images the Giver saw, images of the earth chipping away from a variety of dark locations, a multitude of limbs guided solely from one unified embodiment, searching for waves of modified life, for all those beyond the confines of the body to return to the all-empowering Giver, and take place in the greatest event of all time.
Indeed, the time had come. Tonight all those who had taken part in the glories of the Giver would unite to share in a mass prayer of sorts, to combine forces and become part of the unified body. Too bad then that those who had had the honor to supply would then miss out on this great occasion. Perhaps it had been beneficial that he never found a way to supply, despite all his strenuous efforts. Now he could take part in the event!
The bed cart shook turbulently, as if an earthquake approached. He leaped off and tossed it aside, his one good eye peeking out through the bandages masking his face. At first it aimed towards the security camera in the upper corner, then to the crashing bed cart, then to the buckling tiles in the floor. They rose up and down and up and down, finally shattering into pieces, cement and vinyl flooring flying up in a shower of pebbles and shards, dirt spraying the room behind it. He shielded himself with his arms, peeking through as the appendage ripped through the floor of the hospital basement, twisting wildly like an angry snake, drilling away at the edges of the hole it had created just for Harold.
The door flung open behind him and he turned to see a number of Outsiders gathered, their stares glazed with shock at the daunting scene before them.
Unthreatened, he turned back and jumped into the small hole. The appendage wrapped itself around him, guiding him down the tight squeeze. He reached the bottom and crawled away through the tunnels the Giver had also created just for him. The appendage led the way, then released its grip on him and stayed behind to close up the trail behind.
Again, Harold was free.
Jaimie stood up, grasping the darkness, pacing in circles but finding nothing, the flooring warm beneath her bare feet. Unguided, she moved and moved, crying, nearly wishing death upon herself, as it seemed her only viable alternative at the moment.
She leaned against the wall. Within, the beat went on, music vibrating in the walls, pulsing, thrum...thrum...thrum, synthesized drones seeping from the wall into her body, like the beads of sweat escaping the skin on her very own face.
Harold crawled and crawled, feverishly, dirt beneath his tattered nails, bloodied bandages dangling crazily from his face, on and on, forward, pressing, muscles screaming, bones aching. Suddenly, Harold no longer wanted to die. He wanted, needed to live, to experience the event within the domain of the Giver, to help assist those others recruited to arrange for the perfect environment, to help establish the field for the ultimate harvest.
And in his fury, Harold saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Out of control, he crawled to it, squeezing through the small entrance, falling into one of the blue rooms. Behind him, the hole immediately closed up. He stood, stretching his muscles, dirt falling from his body.
He glanced about the dark room and saw something odd.
A girl, in the room with him, standing just a few feet ahead, face, hands, and body pressed against the wall. Crying.