by Zack Mason
Abbie was a bit more tense than he. The boy was her cousin after all, but this wouldn't be any different from other extractions, he reasoned.
The boy was fine for the time being. He was cowering in some brush about fifty yards away. Hardy could even see the Indian who would kill him walking slowly toward the little guy's hiding place. There was plenty of time.
Hardy laid down his pipe, steadying it to make sure it wouldn't tip over. He loved this Puritan tobacco. It had a certain kick to it modern tobacco lacked.
He raised his bow, notched an arrow, and centered his sights on the warrior's chest. He pulled the string back to his cheek and waited for the perfect moment to release.
Then, the string snapped.
Abbie let out a low moan of distress as she scrambled to get her own bow ready. While Hardy was busy restringing his bow, Abbie swiftly loosed three missiles at the attacker. Each shaft sailed true, only to veer off sharply at the last minute as if blown by some unfelt wind. That got Hardy's attention. Abbie was not one to miss.
Tension now coursed through his veins. This was not going to be an easy extraction after all. Abbie dropped her weapon and ran to rescue the boy, but she tripped on a rock and slammed shoulder-first into the ground.
It was too late. Hardy grabbed Abbie and turned her head away from the carnage, covering her eyes with his hand. He immediately shifted them back to several minutes before the attack.
Distress in the eyes of someone you love is an excellent motivator and Hardy redoubled his efforts. Abbie was bordering on frantic. He'd never seen her like this, but this was family, and she was afraid. She was afraid this was one of those times. One of those times they didn't like to talk about, but one of those times where the unseen hand prevented their interference.
This time, when the boy hid himself, Hardy hunkered low and ran toward him, hoping to grab the boy and whisk him off to safety. However, the boy heard the noise of Hardy's approach and panicked. Without looking and fearing it to be an Indian, he ran off in the opposite direction. This accelerated the inevitable, driving him right into the hands of his killer. Hardy had a few more seconds to try something else, but his bowstring broke again and his rifle misfired twice. He shifted out of the unpleasantness once more.
He sat on his haunches with a solid thunk. He shook his head, not liking how things were shaping up.
"I don't think this is going to work, Abbie."
"Please," she pleaded.
"You've seen this before. You know what it means."
"Please, Hardy."
She melted his resolve to give up. It reformed into determination to succeed. He would do this for her. One way or the other.
He retrieved some additional modern weapons from his mini-armory stashed under his one-bedroom shack next to Abbie's cottage. He carefully noted the line of attack the Indian would take. Alone, so Abbie wouldn't see the boy's body, he shifted forward to just after the battle and located the Indian's footprints. One by one, he stuck a stick in each footprint to mark its exact spot, and then, holding the stick, he shifted to the night before the battle and buried landmines where the Indian would step. He buried seven in all.
Then, he and Abbie shifted into the middle of the fight once more. Together, they would fire on the warrior simultaneously. She'd use her bow, as that was all she was comfortable with, but he wasn't going to waste time with that. He'd brought a M240, an Uzi, and several pistols, which he planned to unload in rapid succession as needed.
One by one, each of his guns misfired. Out of the corner of his eye, he couldn't tell what kind of trouble Abbie was having, but she obviously hadn't succeeded either. Fatalistic resignation drifted back into his heart, but he dissolved it into dogged determination once more.
An audible click accompanied the warrior's first step on a mine, but as his foot left it, no explosion followed. A dud.
A hollow click from the second mine, and then, again, nothing. Disgusted with failure, Hardy began packing his gear back into his oversized duffel bag.
Suddenly, an unexpected explosion tore through the air. Little Nathan was knocked onto his back, but he was all right. The Wampanoag warrior was another story. There wasn't much left of him.
Hardy was so startled, he didn't react instantly as he'd been trained, though the sight of Abbie rushing to the boy's side broke his dumbfounded reverie. A few other warriors were drawn to their side of the field by the explosion, but Hardy took them out before they knew what had happened. In less than five seconds, Abbie was back at his side, cradling her young cousin in her arms. Hardy gripped her shoulder and shifted all three of them to safety.
He set her down under a tree. She was doing her best to soothe Nathaniel, stroking his hair and rocking him gently. Later, Hardy would need to shift back and disarm the remaining mines.
For now, his feet were rooted to the ground like the oak tree under which Abbie sat. Stunned. He had not believed they would succeed. He'd been certain little Nathan's death would turn out to be one of those unchangeable events. All the evidence had pointed that way.
Yet...there he lay.
Breathing. Alive.
Hardy had not believed. Now, he did believe. Something about the unfolding of this drama pierced the last levee around his heart. He felt the floodgates open and he surrendered his last resistance.
The tears in her eyes had been unbearable, yet he'd had no hope. Then, the invisible hand holding him back had suddenly and mercifully released its grasp.
By itself, a landmine working as it should was no miracle, but it had not been chance foiling their efforts until then.
That force, that power, which till now had been insurmountable, controlled the destiny of the universe. He knew that they had not overcome the force, but that it had shown mercy. The force had shown compassion and love. And he knew within himself the force was no "it," but God Himself. He did not understand the hows and the whys, but submission was the only natural response.
"I'm ready, Abbie."
She nodded, smiling between sunny tears raining down her cheeks. She knew he didn't mean he wanted to leave.
June 1st 2009, New London, CT
It was a work of art, this cold, sterile room Alexander Rialto had constructed. Devilishly simple in design, yet cleverly sophisticated in concept. The walls were poured concrete, six feet thick, with no way to break in or out. There were no windows and only one door, which was made of thick steel and reminiscent of that of a bank vault. It was sealed with massive bolts and a time-lock that would only open with Rialto's palm print, or in two years, whichever came first. The sensor pad could also sense a decrease in skin temperature if somebody killed him and then tried to cut off his hand to get in.
Inside were a series of narrow, finger-width vents lining the ceiling which could emit any kind of gas he wished to inject into the ventilation system.
Few explosives on earth could penetrate these walls or the door, and none that a person could carry.
His secret weapon was the massive magnetic field generating coils he'd buried inside all the walls, above the ceiling, and even under the floor. These coils produced strong electromagnetic fields that would cause increased electric current to flow within just about anything in the room. The currents produced were so strong they would instantly fry any sensitive electronic devices. Laptops, televisions, even cell-phones would begin smoking within seconds. The human body, on the other hand, was a natural resistor. Exactly 1.2 milliamps of current would flow through a person without any exterior source of electricity being applied.
In short, when he flipped the switch, whoever was standing inside would experience a current of 1.2 milliamps, which was enough to make a person seriously uncomfortable, but not enough to hurt or stun them. It was enough, however, to permanently shut down a shifter said person might be wearing until Rialto turned the system off from the outside.
They'd tested it too. Everyone's shifter shut down once inside until they turned the generators off or they left the room.
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He couldn't wait to try it out.
The plan was to get one of the goody-two-shoes trio to shift into the room while chasing one of Rialto's crew through time. Rialto didn't care which one of Mark's men it was. Any would do. They'd hold that one prisoner in the room until another showed up looking for him.
That someone would come looking for the guy was a given. The room was large on purpose. It measured 150 feet by 150 feet. Rialto had built it knowing Carpen's propensity to shift into a situation at a distance from their object of interest for safety reasons. However, 150 feet would be more than adequate to catch the followers even if they were being cautious.
Anyone who shifted into his giant room would be hopelessly trapped, unable to shift out. Once he had all three, it would be night-night forever for Carpen and crew. Even if he only got two of them, they could round up the last one without having to worry about his friends coming to save him.
It was a nasty little plan. He couldn't help but snicker as he set it in motion.
***
I'm not who you think I am, I slipped a stranger inside.
It helps the nights go quicker, but I diminish each time.
"Last Night I Nearly Died"
~ Duke Special
September 21st 1675, Swansea, MA
Hardy had come to enjoy working in her gardens, the sun warming his back as he planted and pruned. The scent of the moist earth on the early morning breeze always seemed to rejuvenate his spirit. It was incredible how effectively outdoor physical labor could reconnect you with your Creator. Today was another beautiful, peaceful day, and he was relishing it.
Until the unexpected voice paused his hoe in mid-stroke.
"What are you doing here, Hardy?"
Hardy straightened and slowly turned to face him.
"Didn't even hear you coming, Mark. You're still the best."
Hardy stood tense, visibly so, ready for anything. He'd been down this road once before when Mark thought Hardy had stolen Laura. Mark had gotten violent that time.
Hardy laid down his hoe, arms loose at his sides. Mark was his friend. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was hurt him again. Yet, how could he possibly explain all that had transpired between him and Abbie over the past months? How he'd been reborn. How could he explain in a matter of a few seconds everything that needed to be said, because that's all he would get before Mark slugged him.
He resolved to not fight back. If Mark got aggressive, Hardy would just shift away and find him later once he'd had a chance to calm down. He steadied himself to receive the punch that might be on its way.
Mark stared at Hardy for a long minute, the emotion filling his eyes changing hues several times. Mark opened his mouth as if about to say something and then shut it just as quickly. He looked away, fixed his eyes on the ground, and then walked to Abbie's cottage where he knocked softly on the front door.
Abbie's surprise was evident when she saw Mark standing there instead of Hardy.
"Mark..." She began, not knowing what to say. There was no guilt, nothing of which to repent, yet a distinct discomfort draped the encounter. She had turned his advances down, and now he found her here with Hardy. That he would be hurt was not in question.
Mark raised his hand to silence whatever explanation or excuse she was about to offer.
"I just stopped by to check on you, see how you were doing." Glancing back at Hardy, he continued, "But, I see you're in good hands."
"Come in, Mark. Have some tea," she invited.
He hesitated, and then entered the house, ducking under the low door frame to do so. Abbie motioned vigorously behind his back, beckoning Hardy to come in too.
The three of them sat down together to share some home-baked cookies Abbie had made that morning, as well as a spot of tea. They discussed everything from the day's weather to the current situation with Rialto to how he and Ty were going stir crazy with cabin fever, but they conspicuously avoided the elephant in the room, Hardy's new relationship with Abbie.
"So, you've been here for months, huh?"
"Yeah," Hardy glued his eyes to the table, "I stay for a couple of weeks and then shift back to meet with you guys the same or next day after I left."
Mark stirred his tea with a spoon. His face was vacant, empty of expression. Finally, he managed a weak smile.
"It's fine, Hardy."
They both knew what he was talking about. Mark looked to Abbie, strengthening the smile a bit.
"I'd no claim on Abbie. I'm glad for you both, I truly am. Now I know I don't have to worry about her any more, cause you'll be here."
"You'll still come around for visits, of course," Abbie confirmed.
"Sure, sure."
It was obvious he was sincere, but saddened nonetheless. He'd expected a joyful reunion with Abbie today, only to receive a gear-wrenching, third-wheel surprise.
They chatted for a bit longer, and then Mark excused himself, standing from the rustic table.
"See you tomorrow?" He extended his hand to Hardy.
Hardy took it. "See you tomorrow. Tomorrow, your time."
Mark went out the door and shut it behind him.
Hardy reopened it, but his friend was gone. He'd already shifted out.
June 1st 2014, New London, CT
The silver-nosed Acela speed train sliced through the crisp morning air like a lethal bullet on rails. It was the 6:05 commuter train out of Boston, on its way to Washington DC. Almost 300 people were on board this morning.
Alexander Rialto peered through binoculars from a platform that held a clear view of the only section of its track he cared about. Torino and Plageanet were the only two on his team whose lack of conscience was complete enough that could trust them with this job. They'd planted powerful explosives underneath the tracks at a junction just outside New London, Connecticut. It was 7:25 AM and being an express train, there was no stop scheduled for New London. The train was traveling at 150 miles per hour, its full speed.
At the critical moment, Rialto remotely triggered the C-4 packs buried under the track. The shock wave from the explosion thudded against his chest and staggered him. Almost simultaneously, he felt the ground rippling beneath his feet. It was an awe-inspiring sight to see 540 tons of steel hurtling out of control.
The train twisted in a sickening angle as its front end was lifted momentarily by the blast and then dove back into the earth, gouging a deep trench with its nose. A plume of dirt billowed before it, piling up over its front and then falling to either side in a continual wave. It was still going well over 100 miles per hour when it crashed into the concrete barrier separating the track from the Connecticut suburb. He'd chosen a curve for just this reason.
The rebar-reinforced concrete wall shattered before the train's impact as if a hammer had slammed up against a piece of glass. Train car piled into train car as the silver bullet passed into the neighborhood. It was not the five houses it destroyed as much as the drag of the earth which finally stopped it.
A shredded carcass of steaming metal remained, smoke and fire billowing from various openings. Painful moans and cries of shock and horror emanated from its body as well as several of the houses.
With purpose, Rialto strode to the wreck, inspecting his handiwork. The wails of the wounded were louder than he’d expected. One feeble, pale, bloodied arm stretched toward him through a broken window, pleading for help.
Calm down people, he wanted to shout. He fully expected all of this to be undone.
There it was, the object of his interest, the front power car. He'd been worried it would be buried under rubble, but the most that covered it was a pile of dirt. He crumbled some of the last bits of broken glass from its casing in a door and inserted his calling card.
A shriek of genuine agony pierced the cacophony of noise and sirens as someone inside awoke from numbness to the reality of their pain.
"Oh, do shut up," he muttered as he walked off.
***
"You see this, Mark?"
Train Derailed,
Over 200 Dead
[New London, CT]
The Acela Express train derailed yesterday at about 7:25 AM just outside New London, destroying at least five homes before coming to a halt. The commuter train was filled to capacity with early-morning commuters traveling between Boston and Washington DC. According to the Connecticut State Police over 200 people on board were killed in the accident. Another 100 were injured, some critically.
"We do not believe this to be an act of terrorism," said Homeland Security Agent John Bryant, "though we will not rule out any possibilities until the investigation has been completed."
Several eyewitnesses reported hearing a large explosion right before the train derailed. A source inside the State Police department has indicated there was a large crater at the point of derailment. Many windows in the vicinity were blown out as well, which is further indication of an explosion of some sort.
The Boston Herald has also learned that a business card reading "Dark Shift, A. Rialto" was found at the scene, apparently left by someone after the accident had occurred. One witness saw a man approach the front of the train after the derailment who may have left the card.
Federal authorities are not commenting on the card or on any possible causes of the derailment at this time.
The article continued from there. Mark’s hands clenched as he read of the casualties, crinkling the paper permanently. They knew what the cause was, or better said, they knew who the cause was.
They might be the only people on the planet who truly knew Rialto and what he was capable of.
