by J.P Jackson
*
In the med-lab, Taylor's ear tuned to the reverberating gunshot. "Karl?"
The shot died, leaving Taylor with the barber shop buzz from Hippocrates as it yanked veins from his right arm like spaghetti from a pot. From wrist to elbow, Hippocrates severed, pulled, pinched and bonded the torch into place. The pain was acute, but alcohol and her voice were enough to keep Taylor's mind from it. Penelope was always with him, in vague whispers on good days or incessant screams on bad. Tonight, her voice was clear, calm, and persistent - 'Find me. Find me.'
Taylor took another swallow then squinted at the face of the torch. He first disabled the device's 74 hour timer, deciding to play his time in the past by ear.
"Four years," he said, cancelling Lanza's previously saved coordinates and entering his own. "I'll be careful Karl. I won't fuck it up. I'll be careful."
'FIND ME!'
