[Wealth of Time 01.0] Wealth of Time

by Andre Gonzalez

  Martin reminded himself of this fact as he looked from Eric’s pump-action shotgun to Dylan’s semiautomatic TEC-9.

  “We are standing in front of you, dipshit!” Eric barked in a shrill voice.

  Dylan smirked, nodding in gratitude. Both boys cradled their guns like babies in their arms, striking Martin as an odd pose. Martin accepted that anything was possible in his dreamscape, now knowing the future mass murderers could hear his thoughts.

  “What can I do for you boys?” he asked, ignoring his trembling legs. An instinct told him this moment was critical to what he was doing, but he couldn’t remember what exactly he was doing before arriving in the never-ending dream.

  “You can mind your own fucking business,” Dylan snarled, now raising his pistol in the air. “Long live the Trench Coat Mafia!” He pumped the pistol upward.

  Eric howled at the ceiling like a rabid wolf. “Don’t come near the school. Don’t try and stop us. You’ll pay if you do. I’ll slit your throat and piss in your blood.”

  “Long live the Trench Coat Mafia!” Dylan shouted again, almost robotically.

  Both boys studied Martin with hungry grins on their face, like a pair of lions about to pounce on a zebra. As if a light switched on in his mind, Martin remembered everything he had been working on before falling into this dream. The boys and the library had felt familiar because they were familiar. He had just stood in this very library within the last few weeks, and remembered his plans to try and stop the boys from slaughtering their schoolmates. Now, he wondered if this was a subconscious ploy to talk him out of it. The past seemed ruthless in preserving its history, and getting to someone through their dreams didn’t seem too drastic for Father Time.

  “Eric. Dylan,” Martin said authoritatively, looking from boy to boy. “Let’s talk this out. Why do you want to do this?”

  Martin drew on his bomb threat training from years at the post office. If a bomb threat ever came in to the post office, either via phone or an in-person threat, they were instructed to ask the suspect “why are you doing this?” as the first question. In ninety-nine percent of bomb threat cases, the suspect was always equipped to answer “where is the bomb?” or “how much time until it goes off?” with a pre-scripted response already in mind. Asking the perpetrator their reasoning for their actions was the last thing on their mind, and he hoped to catch the boys off guard in the same way.

  Eric smirked, turning to Dylan, who kept his own drunken grin fixed on Martin. “You know why we do this,” Eric said calmly. “You saw it all over the news. Nobody at that goddamn school cares about us. They tease us. They think we’re different, but we’re the only ones truly grabbing life by the balls.”

  “Long live the Trench Coat Mafia!” Dylan shouted again, and Martin thought he saw saliva leaking from the corner of the boy’s mouth.

  “Dylan,” Martin said. “Can you even say anything else?”

  Dylan snickered, keeping a steady eye on the old man in front of him.

  “You know, you’re absolutely right,” Martin continued. “I did watch all of the news reports, and read all the articles when they came out. It was a truly fascinating story. The first of its kind. If we only knew then the rest of the shootings that would follow your lead.”

  Eric threw his head back, cackling uncontrollably. “Yes! Yes! Yes! It’s been a treat watching the others carry on our work. There’s been so many, and there will be many more. They all will be taken care of by the Trench Coat Mafia.”

  Martin remembered the Trench Coat Mafia as nothing more than a group name for the less popular kids at Columbine. In the videos Eric and Dylan had filmed of their target practice in the woods, they made multiple references to the Trench Coat Mafia, and wore the same trench coats they had on during the massacre.

  He remembered when those disturbing videos had leaked. They aired on the late night news, not wanting to risk any children coming across the footage in the old days before the internet made everything accessible. In the video, they had made multiple references to not only the Trench Coat Mafia, but also to the Nazi party, and Adolf Hitler. They worshiped Hitler, hailing his name numerous times in the video and in their notebooks that surfaced further down the road.

  “I understand that life can be hard, especially in high school,” Martin said, deciding to do what he could while he had both boys’ attention.

  “Save it, old man,” Eric snapped. “We don’t give a shit what you say. Everything is going to happen as planned.”

  “Yeah,” Dylan finally said another word. “Tell someone who gives a fuck.”

  The boys chuckled at each other like they had shared an inside joke.

  “You know, Dylan, Eric is only bringing you along because he’s too scared to do this on his own. He doesn’t actually care about you.”

  “Shut up!” Eric screamed, cocking his shotgun and raising it to Martin’s face. “Shut the fuck up!”

  “But it came out on the news, Eric. All the stories said you were a big loner. No friends. How sad. But you came up with this sick idea and brainwashed the only person who would give you the time of day. Dylan was a happy kid before he started spending time with you. Why bring him down?”

  “Shut up, old man. I swear to God!” Eric shouted. Dylan stood by his side, jaw hanging open in surprise as he watched the exchange.

  “God? You don’t believe in God, remember?” Martin responded calmly. “You shot a girl after she admitted believing in God.”

  “That did feel good. That Bible-thumping bitch,” Eric said proudly, still aiming the shotgun at Martin.

  “Was this all worth it? Killing each other after leaving such a mess behind. Too chickenshit to face the consequences?”

  “You’re just like the rest of them,” Eric said. “You need a lesson in how to be nice to people. You walk around here with your rules and ethics, thinking you’re better than everyone else.”

  “Do you know how stupid you sound saying you killed people because they weren’t nice?” Martin asked.

  “Go to hell, and stay away from our school.”

  Eric squeezed the trigger and the shotgun let out a booming sound, echoing across the empty library. The slug caught Martin square in the chest, spreading a burning sensation throughout his lungs.

  Eric and Dylan both giggled as Martin collapsed in slow motion to the ground, hand clasped over the hole where the warmth of blood started to ooze.

  “We told you to stay away,” Dylan said, stepping up to Martin with his pistol aimed between his eyes. Martin had never stared down the barrel of a gun before, but seeing the small black hole of death created a strange sense of comfort as he knew what would come next.

  I’m in a dream. I’m not really going to die. If he shoots me, I’ll wake up. That’s how this works. Martin reassured himself as a sliver of doubt crept in.

  “No one remembers you two. Ten years down the road, after your shooting, your names are long gone and forgotten. I hope it’s all worth it.” Martin spoke with a forced smirk, wanting Dylan to pull the trigger so he could leave this endless nightmare.

  “Long live the Trench Coat Mafia!” Dylan shouted, and shot Martin in the head.

  33

  Chapter 33

  Martin jolted awake, glued to the bed beneath him by sweat, and looked slowly around the room to the sight of beeping monitors and dozens of wires and tubes running in and out of his body. He held up his hands to find an IV running into one and a pulse monitor clipped to his index finger on the other. Breathing felt as fresh as he had ever experienced, and he realized an oxygen mask was strapped around his head and clasped down over half of his face.

  A chalkboard hung on the wall across the foot of his bed with his last name written in big, round lettering. It also showed his main doctor to be Dr. Lincoln and a list of the three nurses who likely took care of him.

  Why am I in the hospital? He patted around his body, feeling for any sort of pain or missing limb. Did I get attacked trying to save Izzy? He squeezed
his eyes shut and tried to gather his thoughts on what he had been doing, but all he could see was Eric and Dylan, laughing, taunting, and shooting him while they sung praises to the Trench Coat Mafia.

  An older man dressed in a white lab coat strode into the room after a quick courtesy rap on the door.

  “Mr. Briar,” he said as he approached Martin’s bedside. “Welcome back. I’m Dr. Lincoln, and I’ve been looking after you the past week.”

  Martin stared at him dumbfounded, and the doctor recognized this immediately.

  “Mr. Briar, you’ve been in a coma for the last six days. You’ve been coming in and out of sleep for the last twelve hours, so we’ve been expecting you to wake up soon for good.”

  Coma? What the fuck?

  “Do you remember what you were doing before you arrived here?” the doctor asked in a sympathetic voice.

  Martin opened his mouth to speak, but felt his throat tighten with mucus. If he’d really been knocked out the last six days, his body likely wasn’t functioning correctly.

  He cleared his throat twice, lifted the oxygen mask off his face, and mustered out, “Water.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The doctor spun around and filled a cup from the sink in the room’s bathroom, returning with a wide grin. “This should do good for you. We’ll get you some bottled water in a bit.”

  Martin grabbed the cup in a weak, shaky hand, and used all of his concentration to guide it to his mouth. When he took the first sip, he felt an instant clearing and soothing in his throat as the cool liquid went down.

  “Much better. Thank you,” Martin said. He curiously looked around the room more. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Littleton, Colorado.”

  “Littleton?” Martin asked. “I’m not from Littleton.”

  “We know that. We were hoping you might remember what you were doing out here, so far from home or work?”

  Martin closed his eyes and took a deep inhale, testing his lungs’ capabilities without the oxygen mask. The last thing he could remember was having dinner with Sonya. But how long ago was that? Clearly something happened to put him in a coma. Why wasn’t the doctor telling him?

  “I’m sorry. I can’t remember anything.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” the doctor asked, now scribbling on a clipboard.

  “I remember having dinner with my girlfriend. Is she okay?”

  “Do you remember her name, Martin?” the doctor said, seemingly ignoring his statement about his last activity.

  “Yes. Sonya.”

  The doctor nodded his head and continued writing notes. “Very good. I need to gauge your memory skills. It helps us know how badly the coma has affected your brain.”

  “Shouldn’t all of these machines tell you that?” he asked, pointing a finger to one of the many wires taped to his forehead.

  “Those tell us how your brain is doing physically. You suffered a concussion, but otherwise your brain is in good shape. You were very lucky.”

  Lucky enough to not know why the hell I’m in Littleton in a hospital bed?

  “This will be a process, Mr. Briar. Just know that. There will be some basic things you probably can’t remember off the top of your head. Things like names of people and places. That’s common, and they will come back in good time. I want to make sure you’re not suffering beyond that. Do you know where you live?”

  “Larkwood. Born and raised.”

  “Good. Do you remember your mother’s name?”

  He opened his mouth, but paused before speaking. He had wanted to respond as a reflex. He could picture his mother, could describe her to the finest detail, but her name was coming up short in his mind.

  “Don’t worry. Perfectly normal. Do you know what year it is?”

  Martin certainly hadn’t forgotten that he had traveled back in time.

  “1996.”

  Dr. Lincoln raised his eyebrows, apparently not expecting a correct answer.

  “Do you know who the current president is?” the doctor asked.

  “Bill Clinton,” Martin said confidently, his voice finally feeling back its normal self.

  “Very good. I’d say by these early tests that you’ve suffered mild memory loss. You’re still very much aware of the current happenings. Head trauma has some bizarre effects on the mind.”

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  “Yes. You were struck by a semi-truck.”

  “A semi? Where?”

  Martin racked his mind, the memory refusing to come to the forefront.

  “You were found in front of the Klebold residence in their private neighborhood,” the doctor said, studious eyes on his patient.

  The name Klebold must have been the trigger word as Martin’s mind released a floodgate of memories. He could remember exactly what he was doing. He had just finished snooping around the Klebold house and saw Dylan answer the door for the police officer.

  “Does that ring any bells?”

  Martin stayed in his mind, tracking the events that had happened chronologically. After the cop left, he fled the scene, knowing the officer’s visit had to do something with his rust bucket of a car being spotted on the side of the road in the glamorous neighborhood.

  He scrunched his brow in thought. “I’m afraid I’m not remembering. You said the Klebold house?”

  “Correct.”

  Martin tossed up his hands, feeling a slight tug from the tubes in them. “Sorry. That name doesn’t sound familiar at all.”

  Martin made sure to stare the doctor in his eyes, not wanting any chance of him catching on to his lie.

  “Don’t stress. It will eventually come back to you. The police may still want to speak with you to get a statement on the accident. I believe the truck driver is in jail; semis are forbidden to drive through that neighborhood.”

  And they probably never do, until the past decides to push me out of the way.

  Martin now understood what Chris had meant. Changing a historical event, whether for better or worse, wouldn’t be straightforward. Columbine would have to proceed as history had planned, and the thought burned Martin inside. He’d come this far only to find himself in the hospital from a coma, and having nightmares about the two howling lunatics who would one day carry out their destiny.

  Eric and Dylan win. I can’t push any further than I already have. Anything more will get me killed. I need to recover and get ready for Izzy in September.

  “I’m gonna let you relax for a bit. I’ll have a nurse stop in later to get some of these tubes taken out, and I’ll discuss the next steps with you at that time,” Dr. Lincoln said. “Is there anything I can get for you right now?”

  “I want to see Sonya.”

  “We’re going to call her right now. Anything else?”

  “No, doctor, thank you. I’m just going to try and think back to what happened.”

  “Don’t push yourself. Your mind has undergone some drastic things in the last week. Try to clear your thoughts, I promise you’ll recover just fine.”

  Dr. Lincoln offered a kind smile before leaving Martin alone.

  Martin couldn’t keep his mind clear as the doctor instructed. That had always been a tall task, but now with a week’s worth of time unaccounted for, his mind worked overtime as he debated what to do when he got out of the hospital. One thought, however, tugged at him.

  How the hell am I going to explain this to Sonya?

  34

  Chapter 34

  Six days after Martin had been admitted to the hospital, Sonya’s phone rang and rang, echoing its piercing chime throughout the house. She had managed to crawl to the couch and place herself under a blanket for a drunken nap. Alcohol had seemed the only viable option to shake her mind of the disturbing news she had encountered after a week of being alone in her house, a constant knot of anxiety twisting in her gut at the thought of Martin lying comatose 20 miles away.

  She had called Larkwood Middle School the day afte
r Martin’s accident to inform them she wouldn’t be coming in for a few days, and planned to visit Martin every day until he woke up.

  After making a quick breakfast of toast with jelly, she pulled her Yellow Pages telephone book from the hallway closet and flipped to the D section. Her finger ran up and down the pages until she found the listing for the Denver Post Office.

  She dialed the number on her rotary phone and slid the receiver between her head and shoulder as it rang back in her ear. She had never known what exactly Martin did at the post office and hoped whoever answered the phone would recognize his name.

  “Denver Post Office,” a man’s short voice crackled.

  “Yes, hello, I was hoping you might be able to help. I’m trying to get in touch with Martin Briar’s manager. Martin’s been in an accident and I wanted to let you know.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, we don’t have anyone employed by that name,” the voice responded, softer after learning of the accident.

  “I think that’s a mistake. Martin Briar is his name, if you didn’t hear me correctly.”

  She waited for a reaction from the other end, but nothing came except silence.

  “Hello?” she asked.

  “One second, ma’am, let me check our most recent directory. One moment.”

  The silence remained thick in her ear, the lone sound of flipping paper making its way to her phone. After a minute, the voice returned.

  “Yes, ma’am. As I suspected, we don’t have any employee by that name in our records.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure, either. I’ve worked here for 27 years now and I’ve never heard that name.”

  “And this is the Denver Post Office? The one downtown?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  A twisting feeling surfaced in her gut.

  “Okay, I’m sorry for taking your time today. Thank you for your help.” Sonya felt robotic as she spoke, and replaced the phone on its hook like a dazed zombie.

  Relax. There’s an explanation. There has to be. Maybe you misunderstood all along where he said he worked.