by Bill Walker
Slowing down, he pulled his dilapidated Saab next to one of the sleek limos that choked the small lot. After Kruger left, and when he regained his memory of this timeline, Chessman intended to go out and splurge on the most expensive car he could find, one appropriate to his new exalted station. Yes, maybe a Mercedes or a BMW. Then again, the brave new world of the altered present might offer other, even more alluring choices. Chessman inhaled sharply and he felt one of his migraines coming on, very like the ones he got whenever he experienced an abrupt change in atmospheric pressure. But this time he was not in an airplane. He became alarmed when the interior began to smell of ozone. It could mean only one thing.
“Oh my G—”
Before he could finish, the car filled with a searing, azure light that snapped out, leaving his mind dazed and his vision swimming with spots. Blinking rapidly, he turned in his seat and paled.
“Dr. Chessman, I presume,” Denise said, a wide smirk plastered on her face.
His eyes widened and his mouth flapped open in speechless terror.
“I wouldn’t cry out, Doctor, or I may be forced to rain on your parade.”
Chessman flicked his eyes to her hand and saw the strange-looking pistol pointed at him.
“What— Who are you?”
“Students of your theories. As you can see, they work.”
“W-What do you want with me?”
“We want to join the little party upstairs, and you’re going to get us in.”
“No! You cannot!”
“‘No’ is not in my vocabulary tonight, Doc,” Jack said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Now get out of the car slowly. No sudden moves and no crying out. The pistol my lady friend is holding carries a particularly deadly toxin. You try anything, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground. Trust me.”
Chessman continued to stare at them, open-mouthed.
“Doctor? Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to hang your mouth open?”
The doctor snapped his mouth closed, an indignant look on his face.
“Very good. Oh, he’s very good, Jack,” Denise said facetiously.
“A prince among men.”
“Let’s go, Doc. Out.”
Chessman opened the door and climbed out. Denise followed, keeping the gun jammed into the scientist’s back. She could feel him trembling through his jacket.
“All right... move forward and act like we’re old friends. You might not believe it, but we really are.”
“‘Old friends’ do not hold their friends hostage,” he said.
“Sorry, Doc. We haven’t got time to explain.”
Prodding him forward, they rounded the building and walked up the front steps, through the carved mahogany door and on into the foyer. The elevator stood open, beckoning. Jack saw the video camera nestled in the corner of the foyer and repeated his warning to Chessman to keep cool. Denise even went so far as to put her arm around the scientist and kiss him. He blushed a bright crimson in spite of the pistol digging into his ribs. Jack pushed the button for the third floor and watched as the door slid shut with a quiet hiss. No turning back now. The elevator “beeped” when it passed the second floor and slowed as it reached the third. Jack tensed as the door slid open, revealing the darkened hallway. The brass sconces along the walls were turned down. They emitted a sickly, yellow light that enhanced the dark and somber mood. The steel door at the end of the hall stood wide open, the light within spilling outward.
“Nice and easy, Doctor. You’ll tell Armand and his buddies that you invited us along,” Jack said.
Chessman glared at him like he was some pathetic cretin.
“Herr Bock will not care. He will consider this a breach of trust—he will kill you and me!”
Denise brought the pistol back into view. “We’ll kill you if you don’t fucking move,” she hissed.
Intelligent enough to see the futility of resisting, Chessman marched forward, his face set in a grim mask. Jack and Denise followed. When they walked into the Nine Old Men’s room, Jack had a curious sense of déjà vu, remembering Wiley’s vivid descriptions from the night of his burglary. Sadness rose up in his mind when he thought of his dead friend. That feeling turned to a white-hot anger when he laid eyes on the infamous Armand Bock and the rest of the Nine Old Men. They sat around their table, their faces devoid of emotion—cold, dark, inhuman.
Only Bock reacted. Surprisingly, he rose from his chair, the picture of cordiality.
“Welcome, my friends. You have arrived at a propitious moment.” He turned to the others. “Gentlemen, may I present Jack Dunham and his lovely partner, Denise Malloy.”
He waved his hand with a flourish, as if expecting the two of them to bow. Jack could only stare, paralyzed by shock. Denise raised the air pistol and aimed it at Bock.
“How did you know us?” she said, her voice flat and deadly.
Bock smiled, revealing teeth yellowed and crooked. They gleamed like fangs in the soft light. “We have a mutual friend... or should I say friends?”
He turned and looked toward a door leading to a small anteroom. Jack watched in horror as Kruger emerged, resplendent in the SS uniform they’d last seen him in.
“Goddammit!” Jack said. “You were right, Malloy, he came ba...”
Jack’s voice died in his throat when another man stepped out of the room dressed in a RAF uniform.
It was Werner Kruger!
A second Werner Kruger!
Denise gasped and lowered the weapon giving SS Kruger the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Before she could react, SS Kruger snatched it out of her grasp and pointed it at her. The other Kruger produced a Luger pistol and held it on them, an evil smile on his lips.
“You see,” Bock began, “we were about to begin our little experiment when quite unexpectedly, Werner popped in. I must tell you, it—how do you Americans say it—‘threw us for a loop.’”
Chessman started forward, a look of alarm on his face. RAF Kruger pointed the Luger at him, halting him in his tracks.
“Wait! You cannot allow this!” Chessman shouted.
“What is it now, Doctor?” Bock said, annoyed.
“This cannot be allowed to continue. This is a paradox of the highest order. You cannot have two selves in the same timeline. It could be disastrous!”
Bock appeared amused by the scientist’s concern.
“Why is that, Herr Doktor? Do enlighten us.”
“If they come into physical contact with one another, it will cause a chain reaction that could cause irreparable damage to the space-time continuum.”
“My dear Doctor Chessman. You have been watching too many bad movies.”
Chessman turned a bright pink and stepped forward.
“I have had enough of your condescension, Herr Bock! You do not know what you are trifling with!”
Bock’s face darkened. He glanced at SS Kruger, a look of understanding passing between them.
“Perhaps I do not, Doctor, but at least I do not have to trifle with you any longer.”
On cue, the SS Kruger raised the air pistol and fired.
Pfffuuhht!
The small pistol coughed, and Chessman staggered. Jack watched, horrified, as the scientist’s face turned bright purple and his eyes blistered and cracked open, the jelly- like fluid coursed down his distended cheeks. A bilious foam gushed from his mouth and the skin of his face swelled outwards, threatening to burst. It made his head look like a giant grape. With a strangled cry, Chessman crashed to the floor, instantly still. The SS Kruger turned the gun on Jack and Denise.
One of Bock’s eyebrows arched in amusement. “How baroque. I shall have to examine this weapon more thoroughly.”
“Now, for the two of you. Please, sit over there,” Bock said, indicating two chairs against one wall.
Denise looked sick. “I’m sorry, Jack. I should have known better. I led us right to them.”
Jack shook his head. “It’s okay, we had no choice. It all started here.”
&nb
sp; “Quite correct, my dear Mr. Dunham. All timelines lead to The Normandy Club, so to speak. In order to stop the cycle from repeating, you had to come here. Regretfully, we shall have to end our little game soon. However, I am not without some compassion. I will allow you to watch Werner’s departure and then you will die.”
About to protest, Jack relaxed. Bock was forgetting a simple fact. When Kruger transported, everything would change. Bock wouldn’t have the chance to kill them because, for everyone, the clock would be reset, everything returned to that nightmarish future.
And therein lay the rub.
He and Denise would survive, but they would have to relive all of this again, the main difference being the additional memories of this cycle. Jack’s heart sank. He imagined having to live all the danger and all the horror all over again. Would it stop then, or were they even now caught in a never-ending loop, destined forever to recycle through time like some eternally broken record?
Resigned, Jack sat on his chair and motioned for Denise to take hers. She scowled and plopped into the chair, taking Jack’s hand in her own. SS Kruger kept the air pistol trained on them while RAF Kruger turned to his equipment and began preparing for his journey.
Denise leaned over to him and whispered, “When I give you the signal, go for RAF Kruger.”
Jack kept his face expressionless as he spoke to her out of the side of his mouth. “Are you nuts?”
“Jack, the air pistol only had one shot. It’s empty!”
Jack snapped his eyes to SS Kruger. The man watched them, his eyes shining with undisguised yearning. He couldn’t wait to pull that trigger. Jack wanted to laugh, but instead turned his gaze to the other Kruger. He noted that the man’s attention was totally absorbed in checking out his gear.
A moment later, Jack felt Denise squeeze something into his hand. He looked and saw that it was a one-shilling coin, dated 1942. Turning to her, he saw her nod toward RAF Kruger.
“Gentlemen, we are ready,” Bock intoned as RAF Kruger sat down on the chair in the middle of the room.
Jack watched SS Kruger, waiting for him to move. Come on, damn it! Turn!
Almost as if the man had heard him, SS Kruger turned toward his temporal counterpart, giving Jack his window of opportunity. With speed and accuracy that surprised even him, Jack hurled the heavy coin right at RAF Kruger, catching him directly in the left eye.
RAF Kruger screamed and clutched his eye, distracting SS Kruger for the split second they needed. Jack and Denise bolted from the chairs and leapt onto the two Krugers, knocking them to the floor. Both pistols went flying, and in moments the room became a shambles: furniture smashed, militaria displays overturned and trampled, priceless art destroyed.
“STOP THIS, NOW!” Bock screamed.
They ignored him and the fight escalated. Denise utilized the martial arts training gleaned from her years in the Lambda Army, delivering crushing blows to SS Kruger’s head and chest in a series of lightning-fast punches and kicks. Jack barely held on as he continued rolling around on the floor, trying to pin RAF Kruger.
Swinging around on the ball of her left foot, Denise kicked SS Kruger in the head, knocking him across the long conference table. The Nine Old Men scrambled from their chairs and cowered at the opposite end of the room.
Armand Bock raced to a display of weapons inside a glass case, grabbed a chair, swung it over his head, and brought it down onto the display case. Shattered glass sprayed in all directions. Reaching inside, Bock pulled out a vintage MP40, cocked it, and fired. Bullets slammed into the walls inches from Jack’s head.
“JACK!” Denise yelled.
She rammed her fist into SS Kruger’s face, knocking him out, and scuttled across the floor, careful to keep the huge table between her and Bock, who continued to fire. A second later the gun ran out of ammunition.
Bock pulled out the magazine and reached inside the shattered display case for another. Not seeing one, he threw the old weapon aside and grabbed for a newer, and more deadly, Micro-Uzi and two magazines.
Denise reached Jack, grabbed his hand, and they disappeared in a flash of light.
Bock ran to SS Kruger, who groaned and began to regain consciousness. RAF Kruger came up behind them.
“They are still here. I can feel them,” he said.
Bock’s jaw tightened. “Find them and kill them. I will not have them destroying all we have worked for.”
RAF Kruger nodded and ran from the room. A moment later, SS Kruger sat up, shaking the grogginess from his mind. Bock handed him the Uzi and the two magazines and ordered him to join the search. SS Kruger sneered and followed after his counterpart.
Straightening up, Bock walked back to the ruined display case and pulled out a Hechler-Koch MP5, slammed a magazine home, and pulled back on the bolt. It snapped back with a satisfying clack.
He turned to the Waxworks and smiled.
“Gentlemen. I regret that the situation has changed. I can no longer afford partners.”
The Old Men gaped in abject terror as Bock raised the machine pistol and fired. A hail of bullets raked across their chests, ripping through skin and bones and raising tiny plumes of crimson gore. Dead on their feet, they danced in place, collapsing only when the magazine ran out mere seconds later.
Slinging the MP5 over his shoulder, Bock ran over to the haversack left by RAF Kruger and ripped it open. He rooted inside and pulled out the Semtex, the detonators, and the digital timer. Working quickly, he divided the brick of plastic explosive into three separate charges and set them about the room in strategic places. Connecting the wires, he placed the timer behind the private bar at the far end of the room, set the timer for ten minutes, and pressed the starter button.
BEEEP!
09:59... 09:58... 09:57...
Satisfied, Bock unshouldered his machine pistol and ran after the two Krugers.
Appearing inside the deserted barroom, Jack and Denise hunkered down behind the mahogany bar, their breathing ragged and their hearts racing. Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his throbbing head, trying to figure a way out. He saw nothing but bad choices. Everything had turned to shit, and every alternative smelled just as bad. If they ran, Bock and Kruger would succeed. If they stayed, without weapons of any kind, they were dead for sure.
“What’ll we do?” he asked, an edge of panic in his voice.
Denise clamped her hand over his mouth and raised her finger to hers. Jack heard the whirring and clanking of the elevator as it descended.
They were coming.
Denise let go of Jack and turned to the cabinet behind her. Sliding it open, she pulled out several bottles of Bacardi 151-proof rum. Jack smiled knowingly, remembering many hazy nights at Mike Gordon’s bar. Long renowned for its flammability, 151 made excellent Molotov cocktails. Jack reached for dry bar towels and began tearing them up for wicks. Denise handed him four bottles and he stuffed the strips in, making sure that each one was fully saturated with the potent rum.
“You keep them busy,” she whispered, handing him matches. “I’m going back up for weapons.”
“What about the Nine Old Men?”
“You hear that shooting?”
Jack nodded, understanding.
“All right,” he said, kissing her, “be careful.”
She smiled, closed her eyes, and disappeared.
Jack held his breath when the elevator stopped. The door hissed open. He heard their determined footsteps as they strode directly toward where he sat. He gripped one of the Molotov cocktails, knowing he had one good shot before they cut him down. Maybe, just maybe, he could take one of them with him.
“It is no use, Dunham,” Bock said. “We know you are here. It will not matter if you and your lady run to the ends of the earth or the end of time. We will find you wherever you go. We will not rest until you are dead! Do you hear me, Dunham?”
Jack knew Bock spoke the truth and hated him for it. He then heard one of the Krugers speak. He sounded far too close.
“I
t ends here, Dunham. No matter what. It ends here.”
Jack crawled down the length of the bar, two Molotov cocktails clutched in his hands, the matches gripped between his lips. Reaching the end of the bar, he peered around and saw SS Kruger standing silhouetted in the entryway, an Uzi clenched in his hand. Jack retreated behind the bar, took the matches out of his mouth, and lit one. Touching it to the wick of the cocktail, he watched it sputter, then flare. Unlike gasoline, the flame burned a faint blue, barely visible. Counting to three, he jumped up and hurled it toward the shadowy figure.
Denise appeared amidst the carnage on the third floor and reared back, horrified by the slaughter. Aside from the horribly contorted bodies, the room looked as if a hurricane had ripped through it, tossing everything every which way like so much flotsam. She wrinkled her nose at the coppery odor of blood and suppressed the urge to retch.
The guns.
She had to get the guns.
Turning, she saw the destroyed display case and the empty spaces once occupied by various weapons. Bock was not among the dead. This meant that three of them now stalked her and Jack. She whipped around as if expecting the old creep to come jumping out of the shadows, gun blazing. Shaking off her fear, she grabbed an MP5, an Uzi, the requisite magazines, and made ready to rejoin Jack.
“Oh God!” she said, spying the Semtex and the wires extending behind the bar. “Not again.”
She ran over and looked at the descending numbers.
05:49... 05:48... 05:47...
“Shit!”
She avoided the timer this time and ran to pull the detonators out. Her hand hovered over the first charge, reluctant to touch it. Let it end here, she thought. Then, as if drawn by a magnet, her eyes found the bottles of vodka, gin, and whiskey lining the shelves. Once again, she felt that inhuman craving gnawing at her guts. She reached for a bottle, her fingers trembling.
NO!
Rearing back, she swept the bottles off the bar and watched them shatter on the floor. Her nostrils were immediately assailed by the complex odors of mixing spirits. Let it all end here.
