The Time Until

by Casey Ford

  The Time Until

  By: Casey Ford

  Copyright 2013 Casey Ford

  Dedication

  There are two girls that have helped me through this whole process. First is my wife who gently pushed me from behind. Second is Ohio who loudly dragged me forward, kicking and screaming.

  You guys are awesome! Thank you.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  “I still can’t believe you got me to go see that stupid, glittery vampire movie,” I say, a giant teasing smile plastered on my face. This starts up a rant from earlier in the night. “I can’t believe they actually made a kid. I find that all sorts of wrong.” In the passenger seat of my car, Samantha is giggling.

  “You’re still on that?” she asks with amusement.

  “I can’t believe you actually went even after finding out what you were going to see,” she plays along, almost in a downright laugh at this point. “Besides, what makes it so wrong?”

  I can’t help but smile at her.

  “Come on, you expect me to believe those two should be allowed to procreate? It’s just wrong. I feel gross.” I fake a shudder and she starts petting my back.

  “Poor baby,” she teases.

  “You have no idea. I think I need a shower.” I grimace. “Anyway, that was definitely not fair.” I counter. “When you told me we were going to see a blockbuster, I assumed it was going to be the other blockbuster, the superhero one.” I take the left turn when the light turns green. “I feel so cheated.”

  “Well, there’s your problem.” Another red light. “You just made an ass of you and me.”

  I have to smile at her saying. Her dad says that all the time. “You know what they say about assuming something? You make an ass of u and me.” Yeah, we always found it a stupid play on words and now she’s using it on me.

  The light turns green again.

  “When do you have to be back at the dorms?” I ask after a few moments of silence and soft snickering as our laughter dies down. I’m hoping she’ll go back with me, but I’m waiting to hear her plan before asking her to carpool with me. It’s only a two-hour drive to UCLA from here, but the trip gets pretty lonely by myself.

  “Why, you looking for a ride?” She’s being playful again. I like it when she’s playful.

  Another red light.

  “You caught me.” I throw my hands up in surrender. “So what do you say?”

  “Sure. Why not?” she sighs and shrugs.

  I roll my eyes at her and we share a quick chuckle at our silliness. We’ve always been a little silly, it comes with the territory. I turn my attention back to the streetlight. Seriously, how long has it been red? There’s no one coming.

  “Did you really need to ask, Al?” Sam inquires. She knows differently. “It’s not like I was going to leave without you.”

  I know that, but I always feel the need to ask anyway. Just in case something’s changed.

  “Nope. Just like hearing you say you’ll take me with you.” I smile brightly and Sam chuckles at me as she rolls her brown eyes.

  “Come on, Al,” Sam starts, “we’re 20. When are you going to grow up?”

  I shoot her an “are you kidding” look. The damn light is stubborn.

  “That’s real rich coming for the person who counts years starting from her birthday and not New Year’s Eve.”

  “Hey!” she defends. “That’s a perfectly good place to start a year in my book.”

  “Sure, if your birthday was New Year’s Day instead of in July.” This light really hates me and the feeling is mutual.

  Finally, after what seems like years, the light crossing the intersection in front of us turns yellow, then red. I watch as my light turns green. It takes a second to register in my mind that I can go since I’ve been sitting at this light for the better part of my adult life. I ease on the accelerator just as Sam turns slightly in her seat. She runs her hand through my dirty-blonde high and tight hair absentmindedly. It’s something she does when she’s thinking — instead of sticking her tongue out, though just as adorable.

  “You know, Al, I’m so happy right now I could die with no regrets.”

  A smile pulls at my lips as I glance at her. Headlights over her shoulder catch my attention and my eyes widen as a truck runs the red light. Time slows as it gets closer and closer, but my brain can’t make a decision on what to do. My body just freezes and refuses to react. There’s no time to warn Sam before the truck finally smashes into us. The car lurches violently with the impact and the entire world spins out of control. All I can hear is the screeching of metal on metal and the pierce of breaking glass. I see Sam’s head shattering the passenger door window, fear masking her features, before the world rapidly resumes a normal speed. I watch as her body is tossed against her restraints as the vehicles come to a stop and black spots crowd my vision, quickly surrounding me in darkness.

  15 Years Ago (Age 5): September

  Kindergarten scares me. It’s the first day and already my parents leave me with a group of strangers and an old woman who smiles too much. My mother literally pries me from her leg. That leg means safety. Now I’m in the world completely unguarded.

  That’s when the tears come.

  “You okay?” a soft voice asks me. The voice belongs to a set of auburn pigtails. She’s cute, for a girl.

  “They left me,” I sob. She nods her head in understanding.

  “Yep, they did,” she agrees like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “but why are you crying like a pansy?” She reaches her hand out to help me up.

  “They’re comin’ back.” I must look confused because she laughs at my face. It’s a nice laugh.

  “I got it,” she announces, her face brightening up slightly as if she just thought of something really good. “My name’s Sam and from now on you’re mine.” Now I know I’m showing my confused face.

  What is this girl saying?

  “Huh?” is all that comes out when I try to ask her about what she just said. Her smile falters slightly.

  “You’re mine. So you’re not alone anymore. You’ll be with me.” She pauses to let that sink in for me. Is she saying she wants to be my friend? That’s kind of a wacky way to say it.

  “My mom says everyone needs someone. Well, you’re mine. Now you need me.”

  This little girl, Sam, is by far the weirdest person I’ve ever met. I can’t help but smile at her. I think it’s going to be really interesting with her around.

  Present Day

  I wake to flashing lights – bright, ominous, and blinking red, blue, and white. Smoke fills my head, the car, everywhere. The baby powder mist from the airbag hangs in the ai
r, mixing with the smoke from the engine, and giving my mouth a chalky taste. Everything is black with blobs of flashing color. My left eye feels like I’m crying from it — something wet and sticky is dripping down my cheek — and I’m hesitant to open my right one. My head is ringing, or it could be the car itself, either way, it hurts. A lot. Moving my hand a little sends bolts of pain through my body and the world goes blacker.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when I manage to open one eye — the other seems to be permanently sealed — and take in the scene.

  The entire world is hazy and out of focus. I have to blink a few times before I can see clearly enough to figure out what’s happening. Even then, it’s barely enough and I have to make due. An off-white deflated airbag hangs from my steering wheel. The windshield is shattered and a pickup truck is where my engine is supposed to be. There’s no other sound beyond a continuous ringing. I can see the radiator spewing steam. Breathing is hard until I open my mouth – I guess I can count a broken nose on my just started list of injuries.

  I slowly turn my head, which accounts for a fresh bolt of pain, a larger headache, and another injury induced power nap. The next time I rouse, smoke has filled the inside of the car, and it’s very hard to breathe through all the debris floating around. I figure out why my arm hurt so badly when I tried to move it — it’s bent in an unnatural direction at mid forearm. From the way the bone is jutting out, I’ve determined it’s in pretty bad shape. My other arm is pinned between the door and the steering wheel, but for now, it seems fine. Not being able to feel my legs is what really scares me the most — but then again, I can’t feel anything but pain right now.

  That is, until I look at the passenger seat.

  Samantha is leaning forward against her seat belt, blood dripping from her ragged, hanging hair. Her once auburn locks are almost dyed black from the rich crimson color staining it. Her eyes are closed and I can’t make out much in the way of injuries. I do notice that her arm is beyond black and blue having progressed directly to black. The entire passenger dash has been crushed and now sits completely in her lap, her legs buried under metal and plastic. She doesn’t move, doesn’t even whimper. It takes a second for my thoughts to process and I can find my voice.

  “Sam?” I can barely get that out; my voice is harsh and scratchy.

  “Sam?” Not even a stir. I try moving my arm again in order to touch her. Maybe she’ll wake up if I can touch her. The pain nixes that idea in a hurry and I have to fight to remain conscious as the black spots start to crowd my vision again.

  “Sammy!” Nothing. One more time.

  “Samantha!” Yelling hurts my throat, but I’m desperate.

  “Wake up Sam!” I start to move my arm again. Pain makes me want to stop — fear forces me to continue. Fear that the person slumped over in the passenger seat is dead. Fear that the one good thing in my life is gone. I reach for her, with great effort, adrenaline pumping through my veins. I grip her arm, and shake as best I can — difficult to do effectively with my broken arm, but I’m determined. Despite the adrenaline acting as a pain-number, the pain from my arm is incredible and I fight against it in order to keep myself conscious and hopefully get Sam’s attention. My fingers aren’t working properly, bone through muscles does that, simply moving them sends waves of pain throughout my body. They have enough strength to hold on to her arm at least. I grit my teeth against the agony and try to wake her up again with another excruciating shake.

  Not even a broken arm is going to prevent me from trying to wake her up.

  I have to wake her up.

  “WAKE UP, SAMMY!” I can’t stop the terror in my voice. Tears start to fall from my one good eye, cleaning a trail through the blood on my face. I keep shaking her, calling out her name even as I see the shadows behind her — blobs of black move and crowd around the car.

  To me, they look like Grim Reapers and I shout at them not to take Sam away from me.

  I didn’t even notice that my seat belt has also been cut and the door next to me is peeled away. Hands grab me, helping me out of the scrap metal I used to call a car. They carry me to a bed on wheels, a gurney, and start strapping me down. If I could move properly I would struggle, but I’m more intent on finding Sam. My gaze lands on her a moment later and the scene is not the one I was hoping to see.

  The passenger door is ripped from its hinges and her seat belt cut. The shadows rip and tear the dashboard apart, freeing Sam’s legs. Multiple hands gently guide her out of her seat — she so limp in their arms — and manage to get Sam onto her back. Her shirt is torn open and they hover over her working as quickly as they can. One of them is pumping her chest rapidly, counting one to 15 for each pump. A second guy – my muddled brain finally recognizes them as paramedics not specters of Death – is at her head with what looks like a mask and bottle, I can’t think of what it is — my head hurts. He pumps the bottle to get air forced into her lungs when the first paramedic stops pumping. They continue to do that over and over again, a pump of the chest for each second. A third paramedic readies a small device that looks like it’s made for charging car batteries – a defibrillator. He places round sheets attached to wires over her heart and on her chest, under her arm. Everyone scatters when he yells, “CLEAR,” and Sam’s body arches for a second before thumping violently back to the ground. The medic checks her pulse and shakes his head.

  Nothing.

  My head starts to cloud and my heart-wrenches.

  I don’t get to see what happens next, except for a loud, “CLEAR,” and Sam’s body jumping again, before I’m pushed into the ambulance and driven away from the scene. The pain medication starts to kick in on the drive and I’m certain I’m mumbling something about not leaving. I pass out as I think about Sam lying on the ground, limp and lifeless. I can still hear her last words right before getting hit by the truck.

  “You know, Al, I’m so happy right now I could die with no regrets.”

  Chapter Two

  12 Years Ago (Age 8): March

  “Get up you pansy!” I look up through my tears at the blurry image of Samantha Cohn — a tomboy with overalls and a short ponytail. She’s always getting on me for something, and though I find it annoying at times, I don’t really mind it much. It started in Kindergarten. Whenever I would fall, she was there with a laugh and a helping hand. Of course, she was the cause of most of those falls.

  There isn’t much Sam can do that I would ever mind. But right now, I’m sitting on the hard ground in the middle of the playground, holding my leg as blood leaks steadily from the gash on my knee. It hurts a lot and she’s telling me to get up like it’s so easy. I just keep staring at her through the moisture in my eyes.

  “It’s just a scratch,” she says as she grabs my hand and starts pulling. “Now get up.” My body — especially my hurt knee — protests immediately, and I struggle to remain seated.

  “Stop it, Sam. It hurts!” She ignores my plea and continues to tug relentlessly on my arm. I’m gradually losing the Tug-O-War match, my butt rising slowly off the ground. I always forget just how strong she is.

  “Stop complaining and get up, you pansy.” She grunts as she exerts more power into her mission. “And stop crying,” she adds. “It’s not manly.”

  One final tug and I’m fully standing.

  I’m limping, moving slowly as Sam drags me with her toward the school building. She’s pulling me faster than I’d like to go right now, but this is a snail’s pace compared to her usual speed. She’s even holding me on the side that hurts, like she’s trying to take some of the pressure off my injured knee.

  A little smile plays on my lips. She might be tough, but Sam can be sweet when she wants to be.

  Depositing me on a bench in the nurse’s office, she immediately starts rummaging through drawers. I think I hear her mumble something about crybabies as I watch her with amusement. Sam always mumbles when she’s worried.

  Finishing with her rampage, she drops to her knees in front of m
e, arms full of first aid supplies. They clatter to the floor as she moves to inspect my wound.

  “It’s pretty deep.”

  “And you were calling me a pansy?” I ask. She shoots me her “I’m not amused” look.

  “That’s because you are. You always cry whenever something happens. My dad told me only girls and pansies cry. So you must be a pansy, since you’re not a girl.”

  Sam’s dad spent years in the Marines. He’s big and strong. I remember the time he told me that a man is only allowed to cry on two occasions — the birth of his child and the death of a loved one. That’s it. All other reasons to cry were moot and would be immediately rejected.

  He scared the crap out of me the first time I met him, even with the warm smile on his face.

  “That doesn’t make me a pansy,” I puff out my chest a little in defiance. “I’m just sensitive.”

  Sam bursts out laughing and I can’t help joining her. She has a great laugh. One who makes you want to laugh right along with her. My mom always says it’s more contagious than the chicken pox. I have to agree with her.

  “Men aren’t supposed to be sensitive, Alan,” she comments after finally calming down. She reaches for the Hydrogen Peroxide bottle and pours a massive amount over my knee. Pain shoots through my leg, causing a shiver to scurry along my spine. I shudder, trying to shake it off, and hope she doesn’t notice.

  Sam holds my leg in place with both hands and gently blows on my knee. It’s cool and soothing on my leg – and I can’t stop staring at her. The hairs on my arms start to stand on end and goose bumps pop up all over my body starting at my leg.

  Sam’s tender touch fills me from head to toe with warmth. I can feel my cheeks start to redden. Most people don’t think an eight-year-old knows what love is. And they’re right, for the most part. My knowledge on the subject hasn’t gone much further than what I feel for my mom and dad. But if falling in love is anything like what’s happening to me right now, I’d gladly spend my whole life figuring it out.