Extinction Point

by Paul Jones

  A guttural roar alerted Jim to the oncoming stranger as he charged full force towards Jim, the baseball bat in position for a devastating upwards strike at Jim's head. Instead, the bat connected with the bumper as Jim thrust it out in front of him. The metal fender rang violently in his hands as the bat smashed into it, the energy of the impact reverberating painfully through his fingers and up through his elbows to his shoulders.

  A gasp escaped Jim as pain spiked through his hand. Dear God, this guy is strong, he thought.

  Afraid that his traumatized fingers would drop his only protection, Jim switched his grip from the stubby remains of the fixing brackets and took an overhand grip of the curved chrome of the bumper, exposing his fingers to his assailants bat but assuring his grip.

  The suit raised his bat for another attempt, this time an overhead swing. Jim saw the man's eyes flick to his exposed fingers and instinctively knew that the next strike would target them. He would be no use in a fight once his protection was gone and with his fingers broken or crushed, the fight would be over and he would be at the mercy of this psychopath.

  It was now or never, Jim realized, spying his only chance to end this uneven fight. He feinted a blow towards the man's exposed crotch, and as his attacker instinctively dropped his guard, Jim brought his metal staff around in a powerful sweeping strike to the side of his head. The makeshift weapon sang in Jim's hands as it connected with a thrumming twang against the attacker's cheekbone. The man's eyes glazed over for a second as he staggered back. Unbelievably, the big man regained his senses almost immediately and, with a shake of his bloodied head, began advancing on Jim once more.

  Jim smashed the bumper into his head again, this time sending the dazed man to his knees. Still conscious but swaying like a willow in a breeze, he tried to use the bat as a crutch to push himself back to his feet.

  What is this guy made of?

  Jim hit him once more with all the remaining strength his arms had. This time the man went down and, with a final groan stayed down.

  A panting, sweating, Jim Baston kicked the aluminum bat clanking and echoing away into the wreckage of cars. Gasping for breath, he tossed the dented and bloodied VW bumper to the ground, well out of reach of the felled giant.

  Jim tentatively reached out two fingers to touch the unconscious man's neck. Good, there was a pulse. At least he hadn't killed the idiot. There was a lump of purple broken skin on the man's forehead and blood trickled from a cut across the bridge of his nose.

  Reassured that the disabled man wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon, Jim forced his own battered body over to where his bike waited and gave it a cursory once-over. It looked okay.

  What kind of a world lay ahead of him where someone would be willing to beat-in a stranger's head for a bike?, he wondered.

  And with that thought, Jim Baston hefted the bicycle onto his bruised shoulder and began to climb over the ruined truck that lay between him and the remainder of his journey.

  * * *

  Sixteen

  Thousand Oaks was oddly untouched by the events of the day. As Jim Baston pedaled his bike onto his ex-wife’s parents street, it struck him how normal it all seemed here. The fires and chaos were distant, no smashed cars littered the road, and no bodies lay bloated in the heat.

  The streetlights' luminescence pushed back the darkness of the road ahead of Jim, and here and there, garden lights buzzing with moths and bugs cast their meager glow over deserted driveways and empty garden paths.

  Not one light was visible behind the drawn curtains of the houses lining both sides of the cul-de-sac, but Jim knew people were home, he could see the occasional twitch of a drape or curtain as the occupants of the single-story homes watched him make his way down El Dorado Drive.

  Eerily quiet, a sudden sound and blur of movement sent Jim swerving on unsteady wheels out into the middle of the road. He let out an embarrassed laugh when he realized it was just a lawn sprinkler spurting and spluttering into life in a nearby garden. It took all his control not to allow the laughter to disintegrate into tears, his frayed nerves pushed well beyond their braking point by the events of the past few hours.

  Thomas and Jessica Shane lived in an alabaster-white bungalow on a quarter acre of landscaped property towards the end of the little street. Jim pulled to a stop outside their home with a squeal of objecting brakes. Resting with one foot on a pedal and the other against the raised curb, he could see that the house was just as he remembered it. Its green lawn so well manicured it looked sprayed into place rather than planted. The drive leading to the two-car garage was spotless, the rose bushes and flower beds glowed in luxurious color accenting the crazy-paved path that led up to their front door.

  Jessica Shane had always loved her roses. Her death had left a vacuum in all their lives. When she died, Thomas had been heart-broken but he had taken-on caring for her flowers. He had told Jim in one uncharacteristic moment of vulnerability that it made him feel close to his wife, to be able to continue to do something for her, to continue to raise the flowers she had thought of as her surrogate children.

  Jessica had been a truly wonderful woman. When first introduced to her Jim felt an instant rapport with this gentle, caring woman. He could see where Simone got her beauty. When he heard the news of her death back in '33 it had hit him hard.

  Standing on the porch of their home, he could not help but remember the great times they had all shared here before everything went to Hell. Jim counted himself lucky; it wasn't every man who could truly call his wife's parents friends.

  Thomas had carried on his life. But after his wife's passing he had always seemed less than whole, uncompleted, and Jim had the impression that life no longer held any sparkle for Thomas Shane. Simone had tried to fill the void but her father had taken her aside one spring day and gently told her that he appreciated her kindness and that he loved her very much but she could not replace the woman he had spent the last thirty-eight years with and that she shouldn't try. Simone had been upset but Thomas hugged her close knowing that the emptiness he felt was as great for his child as it was for him.

  Casting those memories aside, Jim rapped gently on the front door and waited, illuminated in the dull glow of the twin lamps fixed to either side of the entranceway. There was no sound or sign of movement from inside the house and Jim knocked once more, this time a little harder. His hand raised to try one more time; he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his right eye. The blinds that hung in the front room window had moved, he was sure of it and he turned to face whoever might be watching, stepping a little further into the light so they would have a clearer view of him.

  "Thomas. It's Jim... Jim Baston," he hissed. His voice barely above a whisper.

  The slats of the blinds parted, two fingers pushing them apart. There was a pause while whoever stood on the other side of the window took a good look at him, then the fingers disappeared and Jim heard footsteps coming to the door.

  "Step back from the door," demanded a stern voice.

  "Thomas, it's Jim," he reiterated.

  "I don't care who the Hell you say you are. Step back from the door."

  Jim did as the voice demanded. Stepping off the porch and back slightly into the shadows. He heard the sound of deadbolts sliding back on the other side of the door. It opened with a slight creak of unoiled hinges.

  Thomas Shane stood in the doorway - at least Jim assumed the dark silhouette was Thomas - an efficient looking pistol in his hand, leveled at Jim's chest.

  "Keep your hands where I can see them," the figure demanded, the usually gentle mid-western voice now sharp and commanding.

  Thomas Shane had been a big man in his prime. He stood six-two and had the build of a professional athlete. When Jim had last seen him he was in his late seventies and time had taken its toll on the man. But, as his ex-father-in-law stepped out of the shadow and into the meager light cast by the exterior lamps, Jim could see that the same strangeness that had returned his youth had also
worked its bizarre magic on Simone's Father.

  Here stood a much younger Thomas than the one Jim had last seen all those years ago. All signs of decrepitness had evaporated. Blue eyes peered at him from beneath a full head of gray hair. He was still muscular but had a slight paunch that hung over his belt.

  Thomas had been a cop in LA for most of his life; he had a quick intelligence and a sharpness of insight that allowed him to sum up people's character with a single glance. Jim could feel that intuitive skill now as Thomas’ gaze swept over him.

  Jim caught sight of his own hands. They were black with soot and grime, a cut on his left hand - he couldn't even remember where he had gotten it - had congealed into an ugly looking scab. His clothes he realized were in no better state, dirty and torn, and Jim guessed that his face was just as messed up. He figured he probably looked like a collier who'd just left the coalface.

  "Thomas. It's James," he said.

  Apart from his vehicle's AI, Jim’s father-in-law was the only other person who called him James. Thomas was a stickler for using full names, he hated anyone calling him Tom, or Tommy or any other contraction of his own name, and he believed in affording others the same courtesy that he demanded. So, from the first day they had met, no matter how often he had hinted that his father-in-law should call him by his preferred moniker, he had remained James.

  Thomas took a step forward and scrutinized Jim even more closely. A smile of recognition spread across his face as he closed the gap between them, throwing his arms around him in a fatherly hug.

  "Boy, you look like shit," said the big man. "Come on into the house, let's get you cleaned up."

  * * *

  "Is Simone here," asked Jim as he stepped into the Shane's home.

  Thomas regarded Jim with barely hidden distress before answering. "I had hoped that she was with you when -" he seemed to be searching for the right word "- the miracle happened."

  "No. I found myself in a store. I thought - hoped - that I would find her here."

  Jim knew that his Father-in-law was not an overly religious man. He attended church on all the right holidays, had raised his daughter with a respect for religion but encouraged her to find her own path to God. The use of the word 'miracle' did not jive with the horror and cataclysm that he had just experienced on his bike trip. Thousand Oaks seemed to be an oasis in a sea of destruction; perhaps Thomas had not ventured very far from the house and had not seen the awfulness of the highways or the distant pillars of smoke rising from the burning city of Los Angeles.

  Thomas rested his hand reassuringly on Jim's shoulder. "Don't worry. Simone's tough. If she’s caught up in all this, she will find a way to get to us."

  "I wish I had your optimism. If you had seen what I have today you might think a little differently," he said, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

  "Come with me. I need to show you something." Thomas laid a gentle hand on Jim’s shoulder and led him down the hallway, past the kitchen area and into their comfortable living room.

  "Hello Jim, Dear," said a familiar female voice.

  Sitting pensively on her favorite easy chair was Jessica Shane, pale but most definitely alive, despite the fact that she had been dead for the past twelve years.

  * * *

  Seventeen

  Jessica Shane was strikingly beautiful. As Jim looked disbelievingly at his resurrected mother-in-law, it struck him just how much she resembled Simone. Same high cheek bones; an oyster-white complexion that needed no blusher or foundation; blond hair streaming to her shoulders, a streak of gray adding an elegant look to her already exquisitely chiseled features. Her soft blue eyes able to delve deeply into the soul of those she observed.

  Her hug almost crushed his vertebrae to powder. "But ..." he said, "But -"

  "I know. I know," said Jessica, her voice a soothing lullaby as she led a shocked Jim over to the sofa next to her chair. Leaning on the arm of her chair, she grasped Jim's hands in her own and looked deeply into his eyes.

  "I know you must have questions Jim, and I know that you are as confused as we are, so why don't we just let Thomas explain what happened?" she said gently. "Okay?"

  Of all the Kafkaesque events Jim had experienced during his first day in the past, this was the most bizarre, the most personal for him, overwhelming in its emotion. Afraid that if he opened his mouth his brain would simply stall and refuse ever to start again, he contented himself with a simple nod of acquiescence, and Thomas took that as his cue to begin explaining exactly what had happened.

  * * *

  "I was at my brother Jed's in Miami." An eddy of emotion rippled beneath the surface of Thomas Shane's crisp accounting of the couple's day and the resurrection of his long dead wife. A smile from Jessica allowed him to gather his emotions before continuing.

  "He asks me every year, so this year I figured I'd take him up on the invite. The family was all there, we'd seen in the New Year and I was on my way upstairs to bed."

  Thomas paused before continuing. Jim knew he was rerunning that split second before the event through his mind. "Next thing I know, I'm in our back garden; it’s the middle of the damn day and I’ve got the water hose in my hand and I'm watering Jessie's roses. I always loved to do that, 'cause of that look she'd give me when she saw me doing it. I thought I was dreaming. Thought maybe I'd had a stroke or some mental problem: something snapped inside here," Jim tapped his forehead with a finger.

  "Anyway, I had no idea how I got back home, but the sun was shining and the bees were buzzing and it was too real for it all to be a dream. And then here she comes, like nothing ever happened, like she'd never ... never..." His words trailed away to nothing and Jessica reached out her hand, grasping her husband's hand in her own and giving it a tight squeeze to accompany her reassuring smile.

  Thomas squeezed his wife's hand back and wiped the wetness away from his eyes. "Anyway, here she comes walking down the path towards her roses like she hadn't been gone more than a minute. I guess that's all it's been for her after all, just a minute. She had this confused, odd expression on her face."

  "She just walks up the path and stands in front of me, looking straight into my eyes and I can't say a damn thing."

  "His mouth was hanging so far open it about touched the ground," Jessica interjected with a wry smile. "I swear, for a man who has so much to say he's been pretty damn quiet today."

  Thomas continued as if he hadn't heard the fun that his wife just poked at him. "Next thing I know my leg is freezing cold and soaking wet from the damn hose; that snapped me out of my dumbness and I just grabbed her."

  "You about broke my back you hugged me so hard you big brute you," said Jessica throwing a playful punch at her husband’s arm.

  "Jessica kept asking me what was wrong, over and over. I couldn't speak a damn word - mouth kept moving but no sound came out. She was saying that she didn't remember how she got home. That she might have had a blackout and all I could do was hug her and cry my eyes out like some big old baby."

  Jim's father-in-law's voice became sober; "But James, I knew that any second I was going to wake up, that I'd find out this was just a dream. But it's not James, it’s a miracle." Thomas's jaw quivered, on the verge of tears again. "A miracle."

  Jessica took over: "The last thing that I remember before finding myself back at the house was taking the car to do some shopping. It was raining and I stopped at an intersection about to turn into the lot of the Albertson's out in the village. There was a bang and I remember being jerked against my seatbelt and this ... screaming sound. Next thing I know I'm standing in the kitchen peeling carrots and I don't have a clue how I got there."

  Jim could still remember the Sheriff's account of the accident that killed Jessica Shane; the driver of an SUV lost control as he approached the lights where Jessica had pulled to a stop. The SUV aquaplaned on the rain drenched surface right into the back of her Toyota with so much force that he slammed Jessica's smaller car into the center of the intersection.
She was hit drivers-side on by an eighteen-wheeler doing fifty plus - at least ten miles over the legal limit the Sheriff had explained - she didn't stand a chance.

  Died instantly, the Sheriff had assured them.

  Jim went with Thomas to identify her body. He volunteered to make the identification himself at the morgue but Thomas said that he had to do it, otherwise he would spend the rest of his life never really knowing if it was her or not. The Deputy had already warned Jim that it might be best for him to make the identification rather than the deceased's husband and he tried his best to persuade Thomas but the older man was having none of it.

  He'd escorted his father-in-law to the viewing gallery and the attendant pulled back the sheet covering the corpse on the gurney. Thomas broke down, collapsing into Jim's arms at the sight of his wife's decimated body.

  Now here she was. Remade. Looking just as she had years before she had died. It truly did seem to be a miracle.

  Jim was still too stunned to comment.

  Thomas had walked her into the living room, sat her down, poured them both a drink and insisted she finish hers before he sat down himself to explain what had happened. He explained to her about the accident; how she had been gone for so many years and how, every day he had prayed it would be his last. That he would be able to join her, so the pain that her absence left could end - because he loved her, he loved her more than he could ever possibly say.

  "I told her that something wonderful had happened. That God had brought her back to me," said Thomas.

  "I don't know if it’s a miracle or something else," Jim replied finally finding his voice. "There's so much death and destruction out there, that I have to believe that this is probably man-made rather than divine intervention."

  "Of course it’s a miracle. James, don't you understand? Don't you realize what this means?" said Thomas, a broad smile rising on his face.