A Split in Time

by Vin Carver

  Toyooota.

  Doc froze. Another ball of phlegm coagulated in his throat, and he stopped walking.

  That’s it. I ain’t chasing them on foot no more, I’m taking Hawt Rawd’s truck.

  He walked back to the trail, followed it until he came to the edge of the Tenoco parking lot, coughed, and spat out the phlegm ball. He sidled up to the driver’s side and tried the door. It opened. He got in, pulled the keys out of his pocket, and put the key with the T into the ignition. Being the excellent driver he was, he familiarized himself with the vehicle. He depressed the clutch, noted the stiffness, and did the same with the brake. The turn signal indicator flipped up and down easy enough, and he found the knob for the windshield wipers. The rain had stopped, but a fellow couldn't count on it staying stopped.

  Doc checked the side mirror. Sunken cheeks lined with dry wrinkles surrounded cracked lips and a tattered nose. He grimaced and turned away. The same specter stared at him from the rearview mirror. He jerked on the mirror and tore it from the windshield. He threw it on the floor and cursed. If everyone watched the front of their car and the back of the car in front of them, then no one would need a mirror. The world had gone crazy making useless things like mirrors, and Doc refused to be part of it.

  He started the truck and drove around back. The suspension squeaked when he ran over a speed bump. He stopped at the highway, flipped on his right turn signal, and looked left. A car approached, and he waited. He slapped the steering wheel with both hands and leaned forward. The last thing he needed was Hawt Rawd running out of the store and creating a commotion.

  Stupid Hawt Rawd, telling me what to do and how to do it.

  The speed limit dropped where the highway turned into Main Street, and Doc waited for a car to pass in front of him. He leaned over the steering wheel to get a better look and saw Cassie driving an old sedan. He hadn’t seen her in years. She passed by, Doc pulled in behind her, and they touched bumpers when she slammed on her brakes.

  Stopped smack dab in the middle of the highway, Cassie sat and stared at the Tenoco parking lot.

  Doc glanced over, expecting to see Hawt Rawd running and yelling, but he saw the boy in the black, sleeveless shirt instead. Doc put his hand in his pocket and wrapped it around his knife. The boy’s resemblance to Warren was uncanny.

  The boy smiled and said something to Cassie. It looked like he’d said, “Hi Mom,” but that didn’t make any sense. That boy was not Warren.

  Cassie screamed, and Doc lost his patience. He pressed his hand against the center of the steering wheel.

  Whaaaap…whaaap, whaaap.

  Cassie looked in her rearview mirror. Her eyes were open wide, and she was pale like she’d seen a ghost.

  Doc lowered his head and hid behind his sunglasses.

  Don’t look at me purty. Watch the front of your car, and the back of the car in front of you. Now let’s get a move on, we can’t have your son getting away, now can we momma Renner?

  He hit the horn again—whaaap. He kept hitting it until her brake lights flashed off and she drove into town.

  As Doc drove past the Tenoco, Hawt Rawd ran out of the store and turned toward the forest. The trees, less than a mile away, blazed beneath the afternoon sun and gave off great plumes of smoke. To see out the back window, Doc twisted all the way around while he drove. Hawt Rawd ran back inside the store.

  Pathetic saphead…he didn’t even notice his truck was gone. I bet he thinks his keys are in his jacket, hee, hee.

  Doc faced forward, and a stop sign filled the windshield. He swerved. The rearview mirror tumbled up against the bottom of the jockey box and fell back to the floor making a thud. He slammed on the brakes. The truck skidded past the sign, teetered, and came to rest in the middle of the intersection. Hawt Rawd’s stuff slid across the truck bed and banged against the cab. Doc glanced at the mirror on the floor, and a sunken-cheeked-old man glanced back.

  Mirrors is so useless.

  Straight ahead, Cassie’s sedan disappeared down Main street. Doc turned to his left and laughed out loud. No better than a three-legged pup, poor little Warren limped up Raven Street Hill. Doc lowered his head and leered. He took his foot off the brake, eased on the gas, and spun the steering wheel with one hand. The truck moved onto Raven Street. Old age hadn’t removed Doc’s desire to go fast, and he’d had so much fun running over Dasha, why not do it again? He gunned the gas, and the truck roared to life. Warren stopped at the top of the hill and froze. This would be easy. No more worrying about making it look like an accident. It didn’t matter if it was a truck, a car, or an ATV, hit-and-run accidents had become Doc’s favorite method of temcor removal.

  If only I could figure a way to run over Hawt Rawd. Tell me what to do and how to do it…that pathetic saphead.

  The four-cylinder engine whined, and the radial tires screeched. Warren was a deer in headlights. Doc pushed hard on the gas pedal. He angled the flamed front end at his target and—

  Everything went black, then white.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Murderous Path

  Warren fixated on the flamed front end of the oncoming pickup truck. The truck was coming too fast for him to react, but he had to do something. He could fall to his knees and beg Nathan’s forgiveness, or he could run, but his body said no to both. As the truck came closer, it didn’t slow down. It sped up. It was an unstoppable forest fire.

  Why isn’t Nathan slowing down? Doesn’t he see me?

  Warren waved, and the engine roared. The truck veered off the edge of the pavement and headed straight for him. Rocks flew. Warren flung himself out of the truck’s murderous path, landed on his backpack, and slid down a small incline. The truck skidded to a stop. From within his backpack, the urn burned and pressed into the center of his spine.

  Yep, he’s going to kill me for stealing his weed. This is it.

  Warren waited. He waited for the truck door to open and slam shut. He waited for the footsteps, and the yelling. After listening to his parents every night, he couldn’t take anymore yelling. A lump formed in his throat. Why had he listened to Tanner? Tanner didn’t deserve Nathan. Warren’s fingertips burned, and he waited for the door to open.

  Maybe he didn’t see me. Maybe he can’t see me.

  Warren held still and focused on a blade of grass near his face. Time slowed and the blade of grass began to grow.

  The engine revved, the transmission made a kl-klunk, and the truck backed away from the incline. The transmission kl-klunked again, and the rear tires burst to life. A wave of gravel covered Warren. He shielded his face and rolled onto his stomach. The tires caught hold and propelled the truck onto the pavement with a bounce and a screech. Warren got to his feet. Two blocks away, the truck turned onto Acorn Row, and disappeared behind Statler Ridge.

  Warren brushed the dirt off his pants and walked to the road. He gazed at the intersection of Raven and Acorn.

  Is Nathan going to my house? Would he tell my parents I stole pot from him? No…well, maybe. But why?

  Warren turned around. One block past Main Street, the horrors of high school loomed. He turned back and walked toward Statler Ridge. On the other side of the ridge, Acorn Row ran a mile south, ending near Warren’s house. He made his way past the ridge and peered down the road. A variety of older cars decorated the driveways of Stibnite’s plain, gray houses. Somewhere down there, maybe on one of the side streets, he had a feeling that Nathan was waiting for him.

  Warren wanted to go home, sneak into his room, and curl up with his comforter. His aching body urged him to take a chance, but his mind wouldn’t do it. He had a feeling that Nathan was waiting for him under his bed. He decided to take the long way home.

  Warren walked across the intersection and went east on Raven Street, past the trailer park. When he got to Chestnut Row, he turned right and his heart dropped. Nathan’s truck flew over the road, passing in front of him. The roar of the engine shook the flames on the hood, and the truck was three times its normal size. War
ren ran back to Raven street, turned right, and headed for Dogwood Row. A block away, the engine’s roar faded away. Warren put his hand on his chest and took a deep breath.

  Behind him, sirens blared across Tamarack. Towers of gray smoke rose above Homestead Forest and meshed with the thunder clouds. Upon becoming a high school senior, Nathan had become captain of the Tamarack Junior Firefighters. Nathan wouldn’t have missed a chance at fighting an actual forest fire, and, though Nathan’s truck had flames on it, Warren had never seen him race it through town. The adults in Tamarack respected Nathan because he got good grades, worked hard, and caused no trouble. The teenagers respected Nathan because he smoked pot, made jokes, dated hot girls, and got away with everything. Warren loved Nathan because he had always treated him like a brother…until now.

  Dogwood Arms had five buildings, each with four units. The buildings formed a semicircle around the lot at the end of Dogwood Row. The cracking blacktop had faded and graying parking space lines grew toward the center of the lot—ribs on an ancient cadaver. A sign on each building read TENANT PARKING ONLY - VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED. Nothing about this place felt like home. Warren walked across the lot, his mom and dad fighting in his head.

  If you don’t quit drinking, I’m taking Warren and we’re moving into Dogwood.

  Warren stepped onto the grass and walked between two of the buildings. Ahead, a thin strip of pine trees separated Dogwood Arms from Watley’s Pump-N-Save.

  “What are you doing out there? You don’t live here.”

  Warren jumped. The voice came from a ground-level window.

  “Stop. We don’t want you kids beating a path to the gas station. You’re ruining the grass. Ah, ahem.” The voice broke into a series of hacking coughs.

  Look away, then, walk away.

  “Hey, you’re that Renner kid, aren’t you? I know your dad. Does he know you’re here?”

  Warren pulled his hoodie over his head and kept walking toward the trees.

  “Hey, look at me…don’t you walk away.”

  Warren kept ignoring the man and sped up.

  “Are you dealing drugs back here?”

  Warren reached the edge of the grass.

  “You’d better tell your dad that ‘Hank’ caught you. Next time I see him at the bar, I’m going to let him know what you were doing. Hell, maybe I should give him a call right now.”

  Warren stepped into the trees, and the shadows surrounded him in safety.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Teaching

  Everything went black, then white. Doc’s eyes closed tight, his back arched, and his butt separated from the bench seat of Hawt Rawd’s pickup truck. His limbs straightened and became rigid. His left foot pressed against the brake pedal, and the truck skidded onto the gravel shoulder. He spasmed. His fingers dug into the steering wheel, and his bosses—two faceless faces—appeared in the white darkness.

  One faceless face spoke without speaking, “Why didn’t you stop this temcor?”

  Doc said, “I had to make sure I had the right one.” He floated free from his bag of bones. “My picture got smudged and—”

  One blank, emotionless face turned to another and spoke without speaking. “Do we need to assign someone else to remove this temcor?”

  “I got him,” Doc said. “He’s right here, just let me go and—”

  “We cannot consider re-assignment. This temcor is part of this protector’s penance.”

  “This is true. We must stay in the teaching. He must pay his penance.” The faces shifted to Doc without shifting. A soft, white finger—a long, solid broom handle—emerged from the white nothingness and pointed at Doc. “You must pay. You must follow the rules.”

  “I know, I know. I’m following the rules. But he’s a potential skipper and—”

  A faceless face said without saying, “This temcor must be stopped. You saw the lightning. You know what he can do now. You know he is more than a potential skipper now.”

  “Yeah, goldurnit. I know, I know, and if you’d let me go…” Doc considered his situation, and his eye’s competed with the white of his surroundings. “If you let me go, I'll get him for you right now, but I might have to bend some of them rules of yours.”

  Hawt Rawd, you’re dead meat.

  “No. You must follow the rules. You must stay in the teaching. There are five temcor removal rules.” In unison, the faces said without saying, “One, never be recognized. Two, make it look like an accident. Three—”

  Doc gritted his teeth and separated his lips in a sneer. “You freakin ijits, let me go. I was about to get him when you hauled me in here. Hurry up, I need a drin—” An image of Jackson holding a bottle of Old Hawk pranced into his head, and he pushed it away. His bosses already had enough power over him.

  The oval, faceless faces grew in size. Formless eyes, murky white with swirls of gray, focused on Doc’s decrepit soul. The faces spoke in unison without speaking, “You need a what, Doc?” The faces smiled at him without smiling.

  Where the pull of gravity had vanished came a fall. Doc braced for a crash landing, but he wasn’t there. His skin baked and cracked beneath the hot sun of Dryland, and it fell off his body. He wasn’t there. Ropes carved ridges in his legs and arms, where blood once flowed but now fell, a pile of red particles, mixing with sand, and he wasn’t there.

  “We keep the lines of time true, and we keep you. We can send you ahead in the teaching, or we can send you back…to Dryland.”

  “Just send me back to Tamarack,” Doc said. “Hurry it up and send me back. I’ll get your temcor for you.”

  The unseeing eyes murked away into the faceless faces. The faceless faces grayed away into the white. Darkness dotted all. In unison, the voices spoke without speaking, “Everything happens for a reason. We are the reason all things can happen. We are Paros.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Small, Red and White Packet

  Warren breached the thin strip of pine trees behind Dogwood Arms and walked along the back of Watley’s Pump-N-Save gas station. Flies swirled and twisted above a brown dumpster. He turned and walked between the store and a white panel van. Straight ahead, vacant gas pumps stood beneath a red and brown roof. Straight in his head, a regiment of worries marched like British troops onto a battlefield.

  What if the man from the apartments—Hank?—had called his dad? What if Nathan had gone to his house and ratted on him? What if his parents weren’t home yet, and Nathan hid under his bed, waiting to give him the beating of a lifetime? What if his parents found out he’d skipped school? Would they blame him for the forest fire?

  This message is for the parents of…WARREN RENNER. Your child was absent for the following periods…5…6…7…8. If you have not done so, please contact the attendance office to provide the reason for absence. Also, he got his butt kicked in gym today because he is a worthless, pubescent rat. Thank you.

  Warren’s worries halted, knelt, raised their muskets, and commenced fire. The commander of the worry regiment raised his hand, and all but one stopped firing. A nasty little redcoat on the fringe hit Warren right between the eyes.

  What if his parents noticed the empty mantle?

  The urn was sacred. He had to put it back. Nothing else mattered—not his friendship with Nathan, not his aching body, not the fire. Nothing.

  Nathan’s pickup truck pulled onto the lot and crossed in front of the gas pumps. Warren hit the ground and crawled underneath the van. His fingers slid in oil, and the odor of gas stung his nose. The truck stopped at a pump, and the engine quit running. A cheesy but peaceful song played on speakers above the pumps. Warren waited for the door to slam, the footsteps, and the yelling. Last time, the truck had driven away. Maybe this time—

  P-thump, thump.

  Two sandaled feet dropped onto the pavement.

  Nathan doesn’t wear sandals…and those feet, they’re so…so old. Is that blood?

  The owner of the sandals walked toward the van. Warren scooted back and w
eighed his options. He could hide in the back of the van, but if he did, he could get trapped. Hours from now, the police would discover his body. They would interrogate the van’s owner—the convenience store clerk—and arrest him.

  You’re under arrest for the murder of Warren Renner. How many teenagers have you killed and left to rot in your van?

  From the heavens, Warren would yell, It wasn’t the clerk. It was the man in sandals.

  As the sandals moved toward Warren, he heard the rattling of keys compete with the cheesy music. The sandals stopped moving just inches away, and Warren pressed his fingertips into the pavement. Blood streaked the wrinkled legs and marbled the brown leather straps. Warren’s lower back twisted in a knot, and he scooted further away. He took a deep breath and held it until the sandals move on.

  The door of the convenience store opened and closed with a swoosh. Warren put his face on the backs of his hands. He searched for an explanation. If the driver wasn’t Nathan, then who was it? Maybe the whole thing had been a coincidence. Maybe he hadn’t been chased at all. Tanner always accused Warren of worrying and being paranoid. Maybe Tanner was right. There had to be an explanation.

  Maybe Nathan had loaned his truck to a friend. Based on those wrinkly legs, he had loaned it to an older friend—no…he had loaned it to a relative, an uncle. The uncle was a butcher—no…he was a hunter. That was it.

  Nathan’s uncle borrowed the truck because he shot a deer and needed to haul it back to town. He decided to stop at the Pump-N-Save and clean the blood off his sandals, but he didn’t know how to get there. He stopped on Raven Street to read a map and didn’t notice that he’d almost killed Warren. Nathan’s uncle was very near-sighted, and he always wore sandals when he went hunting because…

  The owner of those bloody sandals was not Nathan’s uncle. Warren stopped fooling himself. The owner of those sandals was a murderer, and Warren was his next victim.

  Warren crawled to the front of the van and poked his head out from beneath the bumper. The sandals stepped out of the convenience store. Warren pushed himself backward and scraped his body against the pavement. Like before, the sandals moved across the lot, and keys rattled. A small, red and white packet landed on the pavement less than an arm’s length away from Warren, and the rattling stopped.