In Times Like These Boxed Set

by Nathan Van Coops

  “Well Mayra can wait up for another beer.” Jettison pops the top on a bottle and hands it to his sister. He holds his own drink aloft. “Here’s to tomorrows. And lots more of ’em.” The three of us clink our beers together.

  “Maybe some more yesterdays, too.” Genesis says.

  <><><>

  Charlie is snoring lightly when I eventually make it back to the tent. Our packs are organized and ready to go near the door. Charlie’s other crates and containers have disappeared. It makes me wonder where his home is and whether he was just there for a visit. I guess he can get away with it. No bracelet on his wrist. I look down at mine. The countdown is less than twelve hours now. I watch a few more seconds blink away, then kick off my shoes and crawl onto my cot. I pull my shirt off, then give it a cursory sniff. It smells like bonfire. Or the rest of me does. I need to find where they’re hiding the showers in the morning.

  I lie back and stare at the ceiling of the tent. I can still hear the distant sounds of the concert crowd dispersing. A woman’s laugh stands out among a backdrop of slowly fading chatter. It makes me wonder where Mym is tonight. Someday after this race, I’ll just have to go find out. The thought gives me pause. Would that work? Could some future version of me be out there with her right now? I think about the possibility and realize it could be true. I just need to live long enough to make it happen. I drift off to thoughts of finding her after being victorious in the race. No more rookie time traveler. Chronothon veteran. Maybe that would bring her back . . .

  My dreams are blackness and sound. I feel like I’m drowning. Rushing water is pounding over me, and I can’t find which direction is up, but I can hear someone calling my name. Then I’m staring at an open plateau that stretches as far as the eye can see. In the center is a cluster of circus tents, all stripes and fluttering canvas. A warm breeze is making the illustrated banners on top snap and pop. The wind has kicked up a dust devil that’s whirling toward me across the cracked earth. I turn to walk away, but stumble and fall. The image changes and I’m in a field of grass in darkness, slumped to my knees, my hands outstretched on my lap. They are dripping blood. I’m transfixed by a droplet jiggling on the end of a blade of grass. I don’t want to breathe because the droplet will fall. Most of all, I don’t want to move my eyes because I don’t want to see what’s lying in the grass. The gravitational pull is too strong. My neck muscles betray me and my gaze lifts. Mere inches, but far enough to see the bloody fingerprint on the glass lens of a tarnished brass compass.

  My eyes fly open and I find I’m clenching the rails of my cot. Holy shit that was vivid. I stare at the ceiling of the tent again, trying to breathe reality in gulps and dispel the paralyzing fear. I prop myself on my elbow and attempt to focus on Charlie’s cot, trying to make out his sleeping form. The tent is silent. No sounds of snoring. The blackness around Charlie’s cot refuses to reveal him. My feet hit the floor while my mind is still in protest. Go back to sleep. It’s just bad dreams. I rise anyway and stumble forward into the blackness. My eyes finally focus enough to tell me the truth. The cot is empty.

  I throw open the flap of the tent and step into the moonlight. The moon is lingering just over the tree line, sinking slowly for the horizon. My immediate surroundings are silent, but off in the distance the sounds of the race-fan camp trickle through the darkness. Some must be outlasting the night, not wanting to waste any of their experience on sleeping. I move the other direction, away from the noise, silent on bare feet. The grass is wet with dew. I consider the droplets on the blades and start moving faster.

  It was just a dream, Ben.

  But my mind won’t let it go. I break into a trot, skirting past tent ropes and vehicles and out into the open meadow. I follow the path toward the lake, worn in now from the night’s traffic. The ground is littered with the paraphernalia of revelers, empty beer bottles and a few lost articles of clothing. I start running in earnest now. Not knowing why, just compelled, needing to know that my mind has not come unhinged.

  Once I’m past the lake, my pace slows. I’m close now. I’ve trotted down a hillside that I know I’ve never traveled before, but my feet have found the way with no trouble, even dodging the rocks and fallen limbs that emerge from the darkness. I reach the bottom of the hill and stop. I don’t want to go any farther. I don’t want to walk down to the stream that has cut its way through the hills, but I do. And there in the tall grass is the shape I’ve been avoiding, the prostrate figment of my imagination. I stare at it, willing it to disappear, but it refuses. I creep forward. The dark mass takes shape. I avert my eyes to the trees beyond the hill, but my heart jolts in my chest again. A trick of the moonlight or blonde curly hair on the receding silhouette of a young woman? I try to focus again. No. There’s no one there.

  The figment on the ground refuses to vanish. I step closer and go to my knees beside it. Beside him. My hands reach his chest and shake him. You have to wake up. This all depends on you. Darkness spreads under my hands as I press the shirt against the still warm flesh. Wet, warm darkness wicks its way through the fibers of the cotton, seeping up through my fingers. I pull my hands away and stare at them in horror, dripping slowly into the grass.

  My eyes finally find the compass resting in Charlie’s outstretched hand.

  9

  “You can’t change the past, not really. You just create a new version of it. Sometimes it’s for the better; usually you’ve just multiplied your problems.”–Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1977

  The flickering lights are bouncing up and down the hill like a caravan of miners, or technologically advanced ants. There are voices and vehicles at the top of the hill. The glowing ants have brought a stretcher. Then one is in front of me, his eyes still illuminated faintly from his walk down the hill. He’s asking me questions, wants to know if I can understand him. Can I say something? I should be able to, but my throat hurts. I’ve been yelling. When did I stop yelling?

  The body has been covered up. I’m standing now, still shirtless and barefoot in the dewy grass. The moon has set and the predawn darkness seems poised to swallow us up. But people are awake now, a sea of strangers swarming over the hillside, some bearing flashlights, others have the same glowing eyes as the emergency responders. I would find the image disturbing if I wasn’t already so deeply disturbed. Another EMT tries to ask me questions, but I ignore him and stare toward the tree line, probing the shadows between the trees. There are no more apparitions, blonde or otherwise.

  The crowd on the hillside suddenly parts like sheep from a sheepdog as an oversized man bellows at them. Cliff steams through the crowd to the nearest emergency responder and wrenches her away from the conversation she was in. “What in the hell’s going on? Where is he?”

  Cliff spots me and abandons the EMT in the middle of her response. He strides toward me but stops short when he catches sight of the covered body. He alters course and heads for it immediately.

  “Sir, you need to keep back.” A young man in a police uniform barely steps into Cliff’s path before being summarily shoved aside, tripping over his feet and collapsing onto his back in the grass.

  Cliff pays no attention and snatches the blanket off the body. It hangs in his hand like a deflated ghost as he takes in the pale, bloodless countenance of his friend. He stares at the body in silence for only a second, then reaches down and tears open Charlie’s shirt, exposing the two wounds in his chest.

  “Sir, you can’t touch that!” Another uniformed man lunges toward him. “There needs to be an investigation.”

  “Damn right there’ll be an investigation!” Cliff bellows. He tosses the sheet at the officer and spins on his heel. He walks straight to me and stares me in the face. “What happened?”

  Nothing comes out. I feel my mouth opening but there’s no sound. Cliff slaps me, hard enough that a glob of spit escapes my lips and trickles out the corner of my mouth. “Snap out of it, Travers! I need some answers.”

  The officer that Cliff knocked over is back on his
feet and fingering a taser on his belt, perhaps deciding if Cliff’s behavior has warranted its use, or perhaps wondering if it would even do any good against him. My eyes focus back to Cliff’s face. The slap helped. I feel more awake to my surroundings.

  “He was missing,” I manage. “I went looking for him.”

  “How’d you know he’d be all the way out here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cliff grabs my arm. “What was he doing out here?” His eyes bore into mine, as if trying to extract what I’ve seen.

  “I don’t know. I don’t. I thought I was still dreaming.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “No.” I think about the apparition in the trees. “No, nothing.”

  Cliff frowns and points up the hill. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. Maybe something’ll come to you.”

  The walk to the camp seems to take twice as long. Whispers multiply among the passersby as we make our way through. News has traveled fast, and people part for us with eyes wide at my condition. I imagine I must look a mess, half-naked and smeared with blood. When we arrive at Charlie’s tent, a group of people is muttering outside. They grow silent as we approach, disbanding in different directions, but still following our progress with their eyes.

  Cliff yanks open the flap and thrusts me inside. I expected privacy, but I get none. Four men in gray official’s suits are waiting inside. I recognize the silver-haired chairman in the center. He turns to us and stretches a hand out to Cliff as soon as he enters. “Mr. Sutherland, I’m sorry for your loss. I know you and Mr. Barnes were good friends.”

  Cliff accepts the handshake grudgingly, and mutters a thank you, his rage suddenly muted by the unexpected politeness of the conversation. The chairman continues without looking at me. “We have already dispatched an investigator to the time of the incident to observe what occurred and we have provided the information to the authorities, so they can issue arrest warrants for the parties involved.”

  “Who did it?” Cliff snarls. “Give me the name.”

  The chairman contorts his face into a mask of sympathy, and stretches a hand to the air between us, as if to smooth away the difficulty. “I’m unfortunately not at liberty to discuss the details of the incident at this time. And I must caution you that the authorities have warned against anyone else tampering with the investigation.” He looks at me now, his eyes running from my face to my grass-stained jeans and dirty feet before returning his attention to Cliff. “But you can be assured, justice will be done.”

  Cliff steps forward, dwarfing the chairman by his proximity, and stares him in the face. “I’ll be knowing that name. Sooner or later. And when you have them in custody, you can tell them that’s their last day breathing. That’s all the justice they’ll get.”

  The chairman shrinks under Cliff’s glare and finds an exit by addressing me again. “Mr. Travers, I understand this is a big upset in your plans for the race today, but we have made arrangements for you regarding a guide so that you may stay entered in the competition, should you so choose.”

  My voice is rough when it comes out. “You still expect me to compete?”

  “We expect nothing. If you would like to resign from the race, that will of course be your option. If you are able to settle the issue with your financial sponsors, then you are perfectly capable of doing as you wish. You will be considered a forfeit and will still be responsible for your entrance and course fees, since we are past the term of cancellation stated in the official rules.” He frowns sympathetically. “We would like to be able to make exceptions in extreme cases like this, but the rules are the rules. Unfortunately I don’t have the authority to change them. I’m sure you understand.”

  The other men around the chairman have been mimicking his informal body language, but as he straightens up, they do also.

  “I wanted to make sure we personally expressed the race committee’s deepest sympathies, but it’s time we get back to our duties.” The chairman gives a stiff bow and navigates around the rigid form of Cliff, making his way for the exit. “Good day to you, gentlemen.” His clones follow him out in single file.

  Cliff stands still for another moment, then turns to consider me. His eyes stop briefly on my bloodstained hands, then he moves toward the end of Charlie’s cot. He snatches up a tin basin from the floor and Charlie’s towel hanging off the end of the cot. He shoves them both into my hands. Next he stoops to retrieve Charlie’s water jug and sets that in the basin as well. “Get yourself cleaned up.” Without another word, he ducks, and shoves his way out of the tent.

  I stare at the items in my arms with apathy and sink to the floor with them. My clothes are still scattered around my cot, one sneaker still laced and lying on its side where I kicked it off. My jeans are dirty around the bottom of the pant legs and have green stains on the knees, but my eye catches a dot of dark red on the front of my right pocket. A solitary drip of human blood. It bothers me. The red on my hands bothers me, too. I snatch up the container of water and pour some of it over my hands, alternating them and letting the excess fall into the basin. I scrub at them frantically with the towel, transferring the red into the fibers as fast as I can.

  Next, I wet a corner of the towel and dab at the spot on my pocket. I press into the denim but feel something rigid behind it. I set the towel aside and reach into my pocket. When I pull my hand out and turn it over, it reveals the tarnished brass of Charlie’s compass. I stare at it for a few moments, then pick up the towel and begin wiping it off, taking care to get all the blood from the lips and crevasses around the glass. I wipe my finger along the glass, carefully removing the smudges. When I’m satisfied with its condition, I lay it on the cot. Next, I strip off my pants and scrub at the red dot on the pocket till that side of my jeans is a giant wet spot. Wet, but no blood. I lay them on the cot, too. Turning away, I reach for my pack to find a change of clothes, but my eye catches a shadow on the other side of the tent. I look up to find the man from my apartment standing in the corner. I’m too irritated to be startled.

  “Shit, man. Haven’t you people ever heard of privacy?” I straighten up, still vaguely aware that I’m only in my boxer shorts, but not concerned enough to care.

  The man is still dressed in all black, his expression as cold as it was at our last meeting. He takes a step forward, his boots leaving indents in the canvas floor of the tent.

  “I thought it might be time for a reminder visit. You seem to be having difficulty following instructions.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “You’re here early. I gave you coordinates to be at the registration building this morning. You’ve been here for over a day.” He picks up a chart that had been leaning on Charlie’s cot and casually glances at the contents before tossing it aside.

  “You’re mad that I didn’t show up as completely unprepared as you wanted me to be? You’re mad that I tried to give myself some kind of fighting chance?”

  “What you did was involve people who shouldn’t have been involved.” He kicks one of Charlie’s boots out of the way and makes his way closer. His disregard for Charlie’s things immediately gets under my skin.

  I feel my expression harden. “You’ve got your friends. I’ve got mine. How I got here should be none of your concern.”

  “It’s my concern when you go off script and add players to this game that are not meant to be part of this. And now look what’s happened.”

  I lunge toward him. “It was you, wasn’t it?” My hands reach for his throat. They don’t make it. In a blur, the man catches my bad wrist and twists it, contorting my arm and making me wince in pain. His other hand shoots out to my neck and shoves me backward into the center tent pole. The top of the tent quivers as he slams my head against the aluminum. He keeps his grip on my throat and hisses at me. “Listen, you little ingrate. This is not about you. Everyone has their part to play. If you want to live to see the end game, you’ll start remembering your role.�
��

  He squeezes my neck tighter. “You are in this. To the end. You keep trying to change the rules, more people are going to get hurt. Got that?” He releases his grip on my throat and drops his arm.

  I rub my hand across my neck and glare at him. “What’s your role? Besides being an asshole?”

  He ignores me and moves to the opening of the tent. He pauses with the flap half open. “Just be at that registration building or we’ll be having another meeting. The next one won’t be as pleasant.” He ducks out of the tent and disappears.

  The sun has risen enough for me to douse the lantern. I open my pack and rummage through it until I find the pencil and the scrap of paper the man gave me in my apartment. I consider the time on the note and check the alarm clock next to Charlie’s cot. Shit. That’s soon. I locate a clean shirt and settle for putting on my still soggy jeans since I didn’t bring any other pants. Once my shoes are on, I make for the exit, but pause near Charlie’s pack. I don’t know how much time I’ll have to come back for things. Probably none if these people have any say in it.

  I stoop and look into Charlie’s pack. I realize I don’t know which items he put into which packs. I try to do a quick inventory of mine to compare, but there isn’t enough time to do it well. His leather gun belt is lying near his cot. I pick it up and feel the weight of the revolver. I think of Charlie lying dead in the grass without it and then try to shake the visual from my head. I shove the revolver and holster into my pack and retrieve Charlie’s extra rounds from the side pocket of his equipment, trading space with the tube of timestream charts, since I don’t really know how to read them. I sling my pack onto my back and pick up my canteen and Charlie’s compass from my cot. One more look around the tent yields nothing I feel I need, so I step into the morning sun.