I arrive at the blood-red maple without much conscious thought. Smiley steps over to me with a knife and severs the ropes around my wrists. He reaches for the shovel and stabs it into the ground next to me, letting it protrude from the grassy earth. The moment my wrists are free, my hands are under my shirt, my fingertips finding the edge of the cast iron plate. I yank hard on it, doubling over as I break the twine that was binding it around my neck and chest.
“What the hell are you . . .”
I come back up with as much velocity as I can manage, the iron plate in my hands connecting with the big man’s jaw, silencing his question and knocking his mouth shut with a bone-crunching click. The leather water bottle explodes with a gory-looking jet of cherry juice that splatters across his face and up into the leaves of the already red tree. Smiley’s eyes roll back in his head as consciousness leaves him. The effect is breathtaking. At least it is for Wiggy, because as I spin around to face him, his mouth is hanging open, and his gun hand is sagging limply toward the ground.
Smiley thuds to the earth behind me. Caught up in the spectacle of what has just happened, Wiggy realizes the danger too late and can’t get the pistol raised fast enough. I hurl the cast iron plate directly at him. He ducks instinctively and attempts to block the blow with his forearms. The maneuver buys me the time I need to pluck the shovel from the ground and step into my swing. His gun hand comes up, but decades of baseball playing haven’t failed me. Eye on the ball. The blade of the shovel connects with his hand at full force.
The clang of metal on metal is loud enough to obscure whatever noises occur from his breaking fingers. The gun sails into the grass. It takes a few seconds for the pain to register in Wiggy’s face, but he drops to his knees clutching his wrist. A wail comes out of his mouth as he attempts to move his fingers.
I stride through the grass and pick up the pistol.
“We . . . we were going to let you go . . .” Wiggy stammers, cradling his broken hand. “You would have been fine.”
“And I suppose you think he’s fine too.” I incline my head toward my other self.
“It was just . . . just business, man.” A tone of pleading creeps into his voice as I check that there is a bullet in the chamber of the gun. “It was for a higher cause.”
“What higher cause?”
He wavers. “I mean, we were just doing what the boss man told us. He’s changing things. Making the world better.”
I don’t care about better. I just want out of this nightmare.
“What did you do with the warp clock? Where is it?”
“I never saw it. I swear.”
“Someone has to have it. Who picked it up from Mym?”
“I don’t know.”
I take a step closer and level the gun at him. “You sure you don’t want to rethink that answer?”
“Okay, okay!” He leans away. “Vanessa. She had it. She’s the one who picked it up.”
I lower the gun.
“Look, man. I swear it wasn’t personal against you or nothing.”
“Then I trust you’ll feel the same way about this.” I raise the gun again. He cringes and closes his eyes.
I pull the trigger.
Wiggy flinches with the gunshot. When he slowly opens his eyes, his gaze notes the position of the gun, aimed several inches to the left of his head.
“Next time, I’ll make it personal.” I pivot the gun back toward his face.
Both of his hands go up. His right hand has already begun to swell. “We were going to let you go. I swear.”
“You were going to bury me,” I say. I glance at my other self’s body lying near the trunk of the tree. “And you still are.” I gesture to the shovel on the ground. “When I leave, you bury me. And you mark the grave. And you don’t ever forget this, you got it?”
“I got it. A hundred percent.” He lifts his arms a little higher.
“What the hell is going on out there!” Epaulettes comes storming out of the farmhouse. He’s shrugging back into his jacket and still carrying the long colonial musket.
I turn and fire a few rounds into the side of the house. He ducks and swears, then beats a retreat for the safety of the house.
“Remember. You bury me. And you mark the grave.”
Wiggy nods vigorously. I take one last look at my other self lying prone in the dirt, then break into a run, fleeing into the woods.
I run for several hundred yards without any plan or thought for direction. Then the situation slowly works its way through my otherwise addled senses. I need to hurry. They’ll know where I’m headed. They may try to cut me off. They’ll have horses.
I spin around to get my bearings. Morning sun is in the east. I head south till I hit the road we arrived by. At first I cut through the woods parallel to it, staying out of sight, but the woods become too dense. I’m forced back onto the road. The road is little more than a rutted path with twists and turns that obscure vision for any measurable distance. I can only hope that if they come after me, I’ll at least hear them coming. I probably would if I had a chance. Unfortunately, opposition appears not on the road behind me but on the road ahead.
I round a curve and find myself facing a column of several dozen infantrymen. Two officers on horseback are leading them. No one gives an order, but several of the infantrymen take it upon themselves to raise their weapons at my sudden appearance.
“Halt! State your business, sir,” one of the mounted officers says. He raises a hand to stop the infantry march and takes a look at the state of my clothes. I still have the pistol in my hand, but I doubt it even looks like a weapon to him. I keep it at my side.
The uniforms aren’t red. I take a guess and assume that I’m dealing with Patriots and not British loyalists.
“Hey,” I manage. “I’m . . . I’m searching for Benedict Arnold.”
Which side was he even on at this point? At least either way there is a chance I’m right.
The officer focuses his gaze on my face. His brow furrows with concern. “We are likewise in search of Major General Arnold. Do you possess information regarding his whereabouts?”
I do, in fact, know his location, but these guys would never believe me. Not that I should let that stop me.
“If you lend me a horse, I can take you to him,” I suggest. “There are men looking to harm him. They kidnapped General Arnold and are holding him prisoner. I was a prisoner myself until I escaped. But I can show you where they are keeping him.”
The officer appraises me skeptically. “Your manner of speech is strange, sir. From which company have you been detained?”
“Uh, First Company,” I say. If I’m going to make up a number, I may as well start with a number that has to exist. “But we have to hurry.”
I can tell I’m walking a thin line with this guy, but I keep my mouth shut, and he eventually consents to bring me a horse from the back of the column.
“You know the location where the Loyalists are holding him?”
“I do, and I can show you. It’s not far.”
“What is your name, sir?” the officer asks.
“Benjamin Travers.”
“I am Colonel Daniel Morgan. My men and I will see to these traitors.”
And so, in a matter of minutes, I am riding hard with a group of early American patriots, headed for a time gate to the future. The oddity of the situation is not lost on me, but I don’t have long to ponder the experience. After several miles of riding, I manage to locate the barn where I first arrived. Another horse is already tied up outside. Its sides are damp with sweat.
Has Epaulettes or one of the other men beaten me here?
I dismount from my horse cautiously, and am followed to the door by Colonel Morgan and several of his men. They fan out around the barn, readying their muskets. Before entering, I pull the pistol from the waistband of my pants. I crack open the door to the barn and peek my head in. There’s no sign of anyone inside, but someone has activated the time gate. The multi-colored swirl is still oscillati
ng between the emitters. My way out.
I close the door and address the colonel. “I think it’s best if I go in alone at first. If I don’t come out in five minutes, then come in after me.”
Colonel Morgan pulls a watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. “Five minutes, you say.”
“Give me that much. If I’m not back out, then come find me.”
If I’m not back in five minutes, they’ll have no idea where in time I am. I’m not telling them that though.
I make it indoors and close the barn door.
There’s no one else here. That’s fairly clear. Whoever has come in and activated the time gate left in a hurry.
I study the control pad and check the last coordinates. They are far into the future. Twenty-second Century. I recognize the location coordinates. Yesteryear Adventure Park. That’s my destination too, but I dial the time back to the coordinates where I left Piper in the 1950s.
My hand hesitates briefly over the actuation key, but then I punch it. She needs me now, even if I did fail her. I don’t know what I’m going to tell her.
I clear the chamber of the pistol and tuck it into the waistband of my pants. I search the area around the gate for the shirt and leather jacket that were taken off of me when I got here, but someone must have taken them.
The time gate is pulsing with light as I take my position in front of it.
I don’t know if the colonel’s pocket watch was running fast or if he just got impatient, but the barn doors swing open to reveal the cluster of patriots and their muskets pointed in my direction. Colonel Morgan has a sword drawn. Mouths drop open at the sight of the time gate’s brilliance.
“What the devil is that?” Colonel Morgan says. He takes a step closer, lowering his saber.
“I’m afraid your general isn’t here, colonel,” I say. “But if I see him on the other side, I’ll be sure to send him home.”
I don’t wait for his response. There are too many muskets still aimed my direction. I step into the swirling temporal ether and make the crossing.
It’s only been a minute since I left. Piper is still waiting, face expectant. She leans around me, waiting for the next person to come through the gate. I take a step closer.
“Piper.”
She’s still watching the gate. After a moment she must realize that no one else is coming through. The gate powers down.
Her eyes find mine.
“Where’s my dad?” Piper is staring at me hopefully. I don’t know how to say what I need to tell her. I take a knee in front of her and force the words to come out.
“I’m so sorry, Piper, but . . . your dad isn’t coming home.”
She searches my face, looking for answers to the questions I know she has. After a moment, I can tell she knows. The noise that comes out of her mouth next isn’t a word. It’s not a scream or a cry either. The sound pierces me nonetheless, and I understand its meaning perfectly.
It’s the sound of her heart breaking.
22
“Remember that there is a camaraderie to aging alongside your friends and family. Time is a war, and the ones we fight beside are waging the same battles.”- Journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1916
There is something absurdly cruel about our location. Surrounded by amusements and rides, concessions and carnival games, every part of our environment is designed for smiles, joy, and laughter. I’m not the first parent to carry a crying child through a theme park, but the sobbing girl in my arms won’t be consoled with cotton candy or skipping the line to a water slide.
Piper’s tears have soaked my neck. Her crying is snotty and ugly and raw. I’d be surprised if she weighs sixty-five pounds, but the weight of her in my arms is compounded by the guilt of my failure. Whether I chalk it up to improper planning, poor decision-making, or just sheer cowardice, I’ve failed to bring her dad home. I’m responsible.
People are staring. Some are trying to hide it. Other observers wear their judgment and scorn openly. I know that I’m currently filthy. I’m dressed in a strange amalgamation of 1700s shirt and post-millennial trousers. I’ve got an inconsolable child in my arms and have no idea where to even go next. I’m lost.
I’m clearly a terrible father, even as a substitute. Is this all Piper has to look forward to now?
Yesteryear Adventure Park is having a banner day. Despite our current pain, business is booming, and the rides are packed with patrons. As I navigate the crowd on my way out of Liberty Village, I do my best to keep my head down. We reach a turnoff near a covered bridge that looks slightly less busy, and I take the opportunity to set Piper down on a bench. She’s still crying, but her sobs have lessened. Bystanders go on with their day of amusements, losing interest in us. That’s perhaps the most cruel fact of loss. No matter how much we suffer, life still goes on—mostly oblivious to our pain.
Piper sniffs and attempts to control some of the snot coming from her nose. I don’t have a handkerchief, or even a tissue. Getting up, I cross the pathway to a malt shop and snag a napkin from a serving stand outside.
“Hey, mister. Those are for customers,” the teenage hostess says.
“Got a crying kid over here with a runny nose. You can have it back after if you really want it.”
The hostess scrunches up her face in disgust and goes back to inviting people into the malt shop.
Just before I reach Piper, a figure down the pathway catches my eye. Perhaps because of her contrast with the mostly white clientele here, the tall black woman stands out. She’s striding confidently through the crowd, a wrapped bundle under one arm. It looks heavy. She’s making for the entrance to the Old West town.
Vanessa.
I get to Piper and extend the napkin for her. “Hey. I just spotted Vanessa, and she’s carrying something that I think could be our warp clock. We need to see where she’s going.”
Piper wipes at her face, but her eyes are still red when she looks up at me. “I want to go home.”
“I know you do, kiddo. But we have to find the way out first. She might be willing to help us.”
“I want Mom.” Another tear runs down her cheek. “I wish she was here instead of you.”
The comment stings but I can’t blame her. “You and me both. Come on. We’ve got to get moving or we might miss our only chance.”
Piper looks physically and emotionally spent, but she gets to her feet anyway. “That-a-girl.”
I attempt to take Piper’s hand as we walk, but she yanks it free from my grip. I try to ignore the scowl on her face. I lead us forward, picking up the pace as we search for Vanessa in the crowded Old West zone. We pass saloons full of lively music and recorded voices. Farther along the street, a couple of actors in cowboy hats are staging a gunfight. Spectators have gathered around to witness the show, blocking access to the rest of the road. The actor in the black hat has a bushy mustache and is taunting the hero in the white hat. Kids are looking on in awe, a few with tin sheriff badges pinned to their shirts.
“That’s her,” Piper says, her voice flat. She points toward one side of the crowd. “Over there.”
Vanessa has been brought to a stop by the crowd around the entertainment. She’s attempting to circumvent the throng, edging her way up onto the porch of the general store. When she reaches the door, she elbows one of the onlookers away and disappears inside.
“She’s getting away,” I mutter.
I break into a jog and Piper reluctantly follows a few paces behind.
When I reach the door, I open it and peek inside. Unlike the tavern in Liberty Village, the general store is more than just a façade. The building is a catch-all merchandise store. Some items are offered in period style, but there are plenty of modern toys and games for kids. A few exasperated-looking parents are browsing the shelves with their children. Piper follows me inside and sticks close.
We push past the curtain in the back amid protestations from a cashier.
“It’s okay. We’re with her.” I nod toward the back.
&nb
sp; The young woman at the cash register frowns and reaches for a telephone.
“Good luck calling your manager. I’ll bet this is way over his head.”
The back of the general store is broken into two sections. One side is a storage area with a door to an employee bathroom. The other side has a solid wood door that’s hanging slightly ajar. Pushing through it, we find ourselves in a completely empty room. The bare wood floors meet paneled walls at every side. The door itself is unremarkable but has a decidedly modern-looking lock on it. Upon closer inspection, a portion of the lock swings aside to reveal a touchscreen control pad. I shut the door.
There’s another time gate here somewhere. I gesture to the panel and invite Piper to have a look. “Can you see where she went?”
Piper frowns, but reluctantly steps to the control panel and begins playing with the controls.
“She went to the future. Back to the bad place.”
I study the coordinates. The decrepit theme park. My finger hovers over the activate button. My heart is still thrumming in my chest. Is this what a panic attack feels like?
The moment stretches into two. Then more. I work to control my breathing.
“What are you doing?” Piper looks from the control panel to me. “Are we going there or not?”
“Not yet.”
I spin on my heel and grab Piper by the hand. I tow her out of the store.
“I thought you said we needed to talk to Vanessa.” She attempts to pull her hand away again, but this time I keep a firm grip.
“We do. But there’s something I need to do first.”
The showdown outside has ended. The white-hatted cowboy has shot the gun out of the villain’s hand and restored order to the town.
I lead Piper away from the crowd and back to the medieval section of the park. It takes a bit of searching, but I finally find the snack stand with the grouchy cashier I attempted to barter with earlier. I leave Piper at a picnic table before heading toward the food stand. The cashier spots me walking up and reaches under the counter. When he straightens up, he lays Vanessa’s multi-tool on the counter. “Figured you’d be back. Thought that deal might be too good to be true.”
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 180
