Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

  “Almonds? But you said it wasn’t C4.”

  Rocket looked at the crater where the ugly tree had stood. “My own special derivative. It’s amazing what a little redneck chemistry can do.”

  “What’d you use?”

  He smiled. “One of the components was detergent.”

  “I figured that when you said typical household items. What else?”

  “That’s my ace in the hole. If nobody else knows about it, then they’ll never see it coming. Nor will they know how to defeat it.”

  “You’re not going to tell your own sister?”

  “Not until its perfected. Then, maybe.”

  Masago looked toward the sky and shifted into her coy, I-need-something-and-you-can’t-say-no mode.

  “So, I was thinking maybe I could temporarily trade vehicles with you. Your truck for the Tumbler.” She dangled the keys in front of his face. “I know you wish Dad had given it to you instead of me. Now’s your chance. It’s a total blast to drive.”

  “Does it still work?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen you drive, sis. Ford Motors is going to need more crash dummies.”

  She lowered the keys, feeling them touch her thigh. “Are you saying I’m a bad driver?”

  “No, I’m just worried about Junior. I need my truck back in one piece.”

  “Is that a yes, then?”

  “It’s a maybe.”

  “I promise to take really good care of him. I’ll drive just like you. Slow and sloppy.”

  He laughed. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “I promise. Nothing bad will happen to Junior.”

  “You still haven’t told me why.”

  She hesitated before answering. “I need to go into town and don’t want to drive something everyone will recognize. The gawkers will never leave me alone. The Tumbler doesn’t exactly blend in.”

  He just stared at her and blinked, not saying anything.

  “That’s the absolute truth. I swear.”

  “It might be, but my gut is telling me there’s more.”

  “For once, can’t you just trust me?”

  “Trust is a two-way street, little sis. Why go into town?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

  She nodded. “It’s a woman thing. You know, a monthly thing.”

  He shook his head and diverted his eyes. “Oh, that. Got it.”

  “So, can I borrow your truck? I really need to jet.”

  “Fine, but no Baja 1000s, agreed?”

  “I promise,” she said, wrapping her arms around him. She hugged him extra long and tight.

  “That felt like a goodbye hug. Permanent like.”

  “No, I just miss you, that’s all.”

  “That wouldn’t be the case if you lived here instead of in the hole Dad bought.”

  “I know, maybe someday.”

  He pointed at the Tumbler. “Why don’t you back it up to the barn and I’ll get my keys. I’ll need a minute to say goodbye to my baby.”

  Masago left the hatch open as she drove the Tumbler backward through the ruts, then shifted forward, parking a few feet outside the doors of the barn.

  Rocket kicked the doors open, revealing his pickup truck standing high on its massive lift kit and tractor tires.

  She pulled the bags out of the Tumbler and set them on the ground next to the truck. She held out her hand. “Keys, please.”

  He put his hand in his pocket and left it there.

  “Are you gonna make me beg?”

  “There’s one condition.”

  “I know. I have to drive safe.”

  “No, something else.”

  “Now you’re just trying to push my buttons.”

  His hand came out of the pocket, placing a homemade accessory in her hand. It was two-inches wide and circular, made out of weaved paracord using an over-under braid pattern. A compass had been surface mounted to it.

  Masago narrowed her eyes at him. “A bracelet?”

  “Survival kit. Inside are all sorts of goodies to help keep lead-footed sisters safe while they’re on a secret mission. Just clip it on your wrist and leave it there.”

  Masago did as he asked. It was snug around her wrist and a bit uncomfortable. The dial on the compass spun around to point north. “What’s in it?”

  “The wrap unravels to fifteen feet, giving you plenty of cordage to use for just about anything. Inside it are foil, snare wire, needle, thread, fishing tackle, waterproof matches, and char cloth.”

  “Nifty.”

  “Nifty? Now who’s pushing buttons?”

  She held out her hand, again. “I love you, too, brother. Keys?”

  Rocket pulled the keys from his pocket and jiggled them in front of her face. “I really don’t like the idea of you being on your own, out there in the world with all the nut bags. Not with all that’s happened recently. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “You always say that.”

  “But this time, I’m right.”

  “I’ll be careful. You know I can take care of myself.”

  “Yes, you can, but there’s a million deranged people living down there in that cesspool they call Tucson. That’s a lot of crazy to handle on your own. If anything goes wrong, I want you back here. On the double. This is the rally point for everyone. Our Alamo when it starts. But remember, my responsibility is here. To protect everyone. Not just you. I won’t be able to come find you if the shit hits the fan.”

  She grabbed the keys from him and snatched her stuff from the trunk. “Everyone died in the Alamo.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Roger that,” she said with a sharp tone. She dropped her bags into the back of the truck and opened the driver’s door. “Try to eat something. You need to keep up your strength.”

  “No one here can cook like you,” Rocket said.

  “That’s because I spoiled you,” she said, rolling the window up. Her fingers put the keys in the ignition and started the V8 engine. It roared with the power of four hundred ponies. A moment later, the gearshift was in drive and she sped off, feeling the overly stiff suspension hit every bump on the property.

  * * *

  Lucas was sitting on a chair-size rock, flexing his knee as Masago told him to do, when he felt a strange tingle on the lower part of his left leg, just above the ankle bone. He yanked his pant leg up and saw a hairy, three-inch long centipede slinking along, using his red leg hairs as a stepladder.

  He jumped from the rock and shook his leg like it was on fire. The poisonous crawler flew into the air, bouncing and skipping its way across the desert floor until it landed in a patch of loose dirt ten feet away. The all-black creature struggled to right itself, eventually flipping over to its belly, then slithering away using a zigzag escape pattern.

  “Shit! That was close,” he said with panic-filled breath. A distant memory flared from an earlier timeline, taking over the projector in the back of his mind. He remembered the hockey-puck-size scorpion crawling into bed with him back in his apartment, right after Drew had finished his shower. The sight of the arched stinger caused the same all-out adrenaline rush he’d just experienced from the centipede. Of course, in the apartment, he was able to smash the creature flat with his shoe before flushing it down the toilet.

  Then something occurred to him. Something about his past. The bed-crawling scorpion event took place about now in his former timeline. He couldn’t remember for sure, but he thought it may have just happened yesterday or the day before to his younger self; at least it should have, if the current timeline held true to the past. He wondered if his younger self smashed it with the same shoe or took a different approach. How close would a rerun of a past timeline event hold true?

  He took a few deep breaths through his nose, more so out of instinct than anything else, calming his nerves and letting his mind flush the thoughts.

  A faint smell drifted across
his senses. Oranges. Again. That strange, lingering citrus scent that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. It didn’t matter where or when he was, it seemed to follow him everywhere. It didn’t make any sense, but then again, there are hundreds of billions of nerve endings firing in one’s brain at any second, so there’s bound to be a few that misfire on occasion.

  Just then, the roar of a straining engine echoed across the warming desert terrain. The torque-driven whine was coming from his left. He looked but couldn’t see anything except a billowing trail of dust drifting across the landscape, floating aimlessly above the endless hedge of desert brush. Lucas estimated it was a half a mile away, and worried it wasn’t Masago. With his luck, General Alvarez and his band were coming to dig six-foot-deep holes for a few body dumps. Then again, it could be some four-wheeler out for a joyride. Whoever it was, Lucas was a sitting duck, unable to escape with a bad knee. Actually, a better term would have been lame duck.

  The motorized sound grew louder until a high-profile, red and white Ford truck came flying over a steep rise in the trail. It was an F-250. The truck’s tires left the ground for a few seconds as its speed sent it airborne over the incline. It’s horn sounded just after it hit the ground, but it wasn’t a honk like Lucas expected.

  Instead, the F-250 played a twelve-note melody from the song “Dixie.” It was the same playful tune that the 1969 Dodge Charger’s horn played in the TV series The Dukes of Hazzard. Apparently, someone forgot to tell the Ford’s owner that the General Lee in the show was a car, not a three-quarter-ton super-duty truck. A vision of Daisy Duke and her incredibly tight short-shorts filled his head.

  He smiled. “If only.”

  All eight of the powerful spotlights mounted to the truck’s exterior roll bar turned on as it raced toward him. Seconds later, the brakes stopped the tires from turning just as the front wheels angled sharply to the right, sending the vehicle sliding through the dirt as it made its way closer to Lucas. He covered his face as a shower of dirt and pebbles were sent flying his way. He waited for the shards of the debris to finish pelting his hands and arms, then looked up.

  The truck was sitting sideways, perpendicular to his position—less than six feet away. The driver’s blacked-out window rolled down in uneven spurts, indicating a manual crank.

  It was Masago. She smiled. “Did you miss me?”

  He coughed after inhaling a mouthful of dust. “Up until just now.”

  She blew him a playful kiss with only a pucker of her lips.

  He ignored it. “I’m starting to think you get off on scaring the crap out of me.”

  “Quit complaining and get in. We’ve got work to do.”

  Lucas hobbled to the far side of the truck, realizing the discomfort in his knee was much less than before. He could now walk with only a marginal limp. The last half hour of flexing had helped tremendously, though he didn’t want to admit it to Masago. He was still pissed at her for the dangerous entrance she’d just made, so he faked a limp to the passenger door. He opened it and put his right hand on top of the door frame with his good leg standing on the door’s threshold. He pulled himself up a good two feet, then slid his butt into the seat. He slammed the door shut to make a point.

  She rolled her eyes, then hit the gas before he could get the seatbelt on, giving him a mini-case of whiplash.

  16

  Three armored military Humvees crept forward in a single-file procession at two miles an hour, winding their way through a gauntlet of private security personnel and vehicles guarding the bio-tech facility on the south side of Tucson, Arizona.

  General Alvarez kept a close eye on his replacement driver from the backseat, making sure the young private followed the lead vehicle precisely as the motorcade navigated the narrow corridor of barricades and parked near the main entrance.

  A four-man team shot out of the lead vehicle, sprinting to take defensive positions around the front of the general’s ride. Alvarez was tempted to look back over his shoulder to check the deployment of the follow team, but decided against it. He was confident his men had used their training and were in position to protect against a rear assault or sniper attack.

  General Alvarez waited for Private Stetson to walk around to the passenger side of the Humvee and open the door for him, which he did, though it took him much longer than it should have. Alvarez stepped out of the transport and put on his cap and sunglasses, ignoring the salute from the driver.

  A man approached the general from the main building, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a tailored business suit with a red and yellow striped tie. “Welcome, General,” the businessman said with confidence energizing his voice. “Good to see you again.”

  The general recognized him. “Where are they, Shelby?”

  “They’ve been secured in quarantine,” Shelby answered, extending his hand in the direction of a massive industrial complex about thirty feet away. “I’m assuming that’s where you want them held. It’s the most secure area of the property. Airtight, shielded, and incursion proof.”

  “Lead the way,” Alvarez responded, appreciating the efficiency of his former second-in-command. He could hear the clatter of equipment and footsteps closing in around him as his eight-man security team covered his movement.

  Shelby walked toward the entrance to the sprawling, five-acre network of interconnected buildings. The property was owned by a privately funded bioengineering company called Micro Matter, founded twenty years earlier by world-renowned biochemist and world record holder for the ugliest beard and mustache, Dr. Charles C. Starling.

  The general followed his escort into the reception area, just beyond the all-glass main entrance. Four members of his team remained outside while the remainder of the unit joined him inside. Alvarez took his sunglasses off after walking through the front door. “Has the bearded wonder sent everyone home for the day? Management included?”

  “Yes, sir. Dr. Starling carried out your orders to the letter. I made sure of it.”

  “Excellent. But you don’t need to call me sir anymore,” Alvarez said as Shelby led him across the marble-floored lobby toward the first hallway on the left.

  “Sorry, sir—General. Force of habit. Where are the rest of your team?”

  “They’re en route. They were engaged in another op when Starling called for assistance.”

  The interior was just as Alvarez expected: clean and sparsely appointed. The white walls, white ceiling, and white floors were almost too white, making him rethink his decision to remove the shades. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the overhead lighting and the whiteout effects.

  “What’s the status of your security team?” he asked Shelby.

  “Three of the four responsible for capturing the insurgents are standing guard in quarantine. One was critically wounded. He’s on his way to Arizona Medical Center, but he’s not expected to survive.”

  “Losses are inevitable.”

  “Yes they are, General. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

  “Your man knew the risks when he accepted this duty.”

  Shelby nodded. “We all know what’s at stake. I’m just not sure what to say to his wife.”

  “That’s always the difficult part. It’s a burden that all leaders must carry for the rest of their days. Hopefully, he pulls through, then you’ll be able to deliver positive news. If not, just keep it short and on point. She won’t hear most of what you tell her anyway. What about the captives?”

  “They’re conscious. But I don’t recognize their strange-looking uniforms. Must be part of a new para-military organization.”

  “Is Starling with them?”

  “The director hasn’t left his office since the incursion began.”

  “Why?”

  “Emergency meeting with the Board of Directors.”

  “You said management had evacuated.”

  “They did. It’s a video conference call. Starling is alone in his office, as usual. He rarely accepts visitors.”

  “Is
he still wearing sunglasses and the ball cap everywhere he goes?”

  Shelby gave him a single, efficient nod. “A bit of a recluse, I suspect.”

  “Not your typical CEO.”

  “No, he hates the limelight. I think that’s why the board meetings are all done online. He prefers to be left alone.”

  “At least it keeps him out of your way.”

  “Yes, he lets me do my thing. Makes my job a whole lot easier.”

  “Have you done a floor-by-floor search? There may be additional intruders.”

  “The rest of my team completed their sweep less than ten minutes ago. We only found the six men.”

  “Have you been able to extract any information?”

  “Nothing. Not their names, ranks, or serial numbers.”

  “That will change soon.”

  Shelby pulled a thin, black metal box the size of a cigarette pack from his front pocket. “Starling instructed me to deliver this to you personally.”

  Alvarez took the container and opened it. Inside were six vials of a neon-blue-colored substance.

  “Just as agreed,” Shelby told him with authority. “Six perfectly balanced doses of Protocol 5.”

  “Time for activation?”

  “One minute, twenty-one seconds after injection.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Some last-minute adjustments brought it down from two twelve. Starling figured you’d be pleased.”

  Alvarez ignored the obvious fishing attempt by his former and snapped the container shut. He slid it into his pocket. “What about the control unit?”

  “It’s waiting for you in quarantine. Dr. Starling prefers not to keep them stored together, for obvious security reasons.”

  “Sounds like he finally solved the cohesion problem.”

  “Yes, three days ago, after a complete remapping of the viral receptors. Only took him thirty years to finally get it right.”

  “Good timing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I wondered the same thing. Out of nowhere, he ordered the development team to work triple shifts.”

  “Almost as if he knew something was coming,” Alvarez added, reaffirming his gut instinct not to trust the bearded recluse.