Wealth of Time Series Boxset

by Andre Gonzalez

  A day ago Martin wouldn’t have believed it to be true, but now knowing how political everything functioned behind the scenes, he saw no reason to doubt it.

  “I know we’ll do just fine,” Gerald said. Tarik had stayed quiet throughout the meeting, examining his fingers and nodding on cue when appropriate. “We have one final matter of business, and that is our weapons to travel with.”

  Gerald nodded to Tarik, who pulled out a briefcase and set it on the table, flipping the latches to swing open the lid and reveal four black pistols. Tarik grabbed each pistol and slid them across the table to the four men.

  “These are your pistols,” Gerald explained. “We’re only taking these with us in case something happens during our transfer into 2064.”

  “I thought we were transferring to and from our weapons warehouse,” Brigham said.

  “We are. It’s just better to be safe than sorry. You never know what will happen in the future. Now, with these in your possession, we’re ready to go to 2064. Are there any more questions?”

  Everyone looked around the table, realizing there was no turning back.

  “I’ll get the car ready,” Gerald said, and left the room.

  101

  Chapter 8

  Chris sat in his office and clicked through the different camera angles on his computer screen. While they hadn’t approached his house in a week, they still watched him from the woods.

  “Cocksucking Road Runners,” he said, knowing they’d go away soon. How productive was it for them to spend six hours each day staring at his barricaded mansion? It had been particularly entertaining when they tried knocking down his front door. They tried sledgehammers, drills, and even dynamite. Outside of that effort, it had remained an uneventful series of days that seemed to run on the same loop.

  The barricade was designed to withstand any form of attack. When his team designed it with a stronger steel from the future, the lead engineer had told Chris, “They asked what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Well, this here is the immovable object, and I’d hate to see what happens to anyone trying to move it.”

  They had laughed about this during the test run when they ran a bulldozer into the steel, and howled when the bulldozer simply rolled its way up the house before tipping onto its back.

  He wished they would’ve tried more, but what could you expect from the lazy Road Runners? With one click of a button he could raise the barricades and expose his house for all to see again, but that would take all the fun out of the game. He knew Commander Strike was having fits trying to figure out where he was, when in reality he hadn’t left the place for one second.

  If they truly thought I was hiding here, they’d keep coming back and trying to find a way in.

  This exact situation was planned for. Food lined the pantry, enough for an entire two months to supply the twenty-five Revolters and fifty prisoners. Five Revolters were dead, meaning they had a couple extra days of supplies.

  Chris had no plan. He could’ve gone to another time, but knew there were thousands of eyes on the lookout. Duane, his closest confidant, had advised the same approach as soon as the barricades had gone up. “This will all blow over,” he said.

  Duane remained in the mansion with the other Revolters who were fortunate enough to not get shot down by the Road Runners hiding in the trees. He visited with Chris at least three times a day in his office, ensuring the old man had kept what remained of his sanity intact. It had been a week and a half that they were trapped in the house, and while no one had quite yet cracked under the pressure of cabin fever, Duane informed Chris that the general mood was growing antsy among the Revolters.

  “You’ve brainwashed them into machines who love to get work done, and right now they can’t. They have pent-up energy that will need to be released.” Duane had reluctantly explained this a day before, creating a new problem that Chris didn’t have the energy for at the moment.

  He slept on the matter and decided to open the mansion in the next five days to let his soldiers out to perform their duties. They’d be ready for whatever Road Runners awaited in the woods, and the more rabid they became with anxiety, the better chances they’d have at killing some of them.

  Chris leaned back in his chair, hands crossed behind his snowy head, and watched the monitor that showed the mansion’s front entrance. A small black figure appeared in the distance, and Chris bolted upright. He watched it grow bigger as it walked through the open field toward the mansion. His finger dashed across the desk and planted on the small intercom button.

  “Duane, to my office please.”

  Chris rapped his fingers on the shiny oak desk, watching the figure grow bigger with each step it took. When the barricades had first gone up, the Road Runners sent over some of their people to study the unbreakable steel. But a week had passed since they last sent anyone, leaving Chris to wonder who would come knocking on the door after so long.

  The office door swung open to reveal Duane, dressed in his usual stay-at-home attire of sweatpants and a baggy hoodie. “Everything okay?” he asked, closing the door behind him, and running a hand through his flowing black hair, his gray eyes bloodshot with fatigue.

  “I think so. We appear to have a visitor. Have you checked the cameras?”

  “Not in a few hours. What’s going on?”

  Chris pointed to his screen and waited for Duane to come around the desk for a look.

  The figure was still 100 yards away, but close enough to see its hands held up in a typical “don’t shoot” position.

  “Who’s that?” Duane asked, eyes bulging at the screen.

  “I’d assume it’s one of our friends, but why come back after so many days?”

  “They could know you’re still here.”

  “How?”

  “Because you’re not anywhere else.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass.”

  “It’s true. They’re not exactly stupid. You do know their entire purpose now is to kill you—they don’t care about anything else.”

  The figure reached the front steps, hands still held in the air. The presumed Road Runner on their front porch was dressed for the weather: a heavy jacket, a thick knit cap, and a neck cover that hid their face up to a pair of ski goggles. The person waved a hand, while keeping the other elevated and still.

  “Do they want to talk to us?” Duane asked.

  “I’d assume so.”

  The figure twirled in a slow-motion circle to show that they had no weapons on them. Even if they had, their current attire would make it extremely difficult to pull out a gun and start shooting, especially with the thick mittens over their hands.

  “What do you want to do?” Duane asked.

  “We can talk to them from here, right? Without having to drop the barricade?”

  Duane nodded, as if he should’ve remembered this. The design had been constructed over two decades ago, and it was impossible to remember all of its features, especially with this being their first time using it.

  “Hold on!” Chris shouted at the screen, as if the person could hear him.

  Duane ran to the nearest cabinet and rummaged through files of paperwork. He muttered to himself as he flipped through them, pulling out a handbook the size of an old encyclopedia. He flipped open the book and ran a finger up and down the pages until he found what they needed.

  The visitor remained a statue with both hands in the air.

  “Do you have a headset?” Duane asked. “The kind with the microphone attached.”

  “Of course.” Chris opened a desk drawer and pulled out the headset he used to place calls with his counterparts around the world.

  Duane explained what Chris needed to click on the screen, within the security system software.

  As soon as the connection was made, the crackle of white noise mixed with wind filled Chris’s ears. He looked up to Duane and nodded.

  “Now you just talk,” Duane explained.

  “Hello?” Chris said,
not moving his eye from the monitor.

  “Chris!” a man’s voice cried out, youthful in its tone. “Chris, I just want to talk with you. I have no weapons, just need a word.”

  The volume was loud enough in the headset that Duane could hear the response.

  “Who are you?”

  The man lowered his arms, probably exhausted from holding them up for so long.

  “I’d rather not say my name, but I am a Road Runner.”

  “Obviously you’re a Road Runner. I must say it’s pretty brave of you to come this close with no protection. I can have you shot dead in seconds.”

  “I know that, sir. But I don’t know how else to show you that I’m here for a peaceful visit. Can I come in to speak with you?”

  Duane frowned and shook his head so hard Chris thought it might fly off.

  “No,” Chris said. “We can’t let you in here, I’m sure you understand.”

  “That’s fine,” the Road Runner said. “This will have to do. I have a proposition for you.”

  Chris looked to Duane with his eyebrows raised. Duane twirled a finger in a gesture that said keep him talking.

  “Let’s hear it,” Chris said coldly.

  “We know you have our people held hostage in your basement,” the Road Runner said. “We also know we’re reaching a crossroads in this war. I can give you something valuable to us, if you release those you’re holding hostage.”

  “Spit it out already. Tell me what you’re offering.” Chris rose from his seat and subconsciously slammed his fists on the desk.

  “I can give you our leader.”

  Chris sat back down and rubbed his forehead. Duane returned to his studious frown as both men stared at the monitor in shock.

  “Are you referring to Strike?” Chris asked, sitting forward.

  “The one and only,” the Road Runner said, and Chris was sure he heard a smile in the man’s voice.

  “What’s your angle?” Chris asked. “I thought you people were sworn to loyalty.”

  “My angle is simple: I want our people back. And we are loyal. I’m loyal to the Road Runners and everything we stand for. That doesn’t mean I need to be loyal to Commander Strike.”

  A traitor? Chris wondered. In all of his time learning about the Road Runners and their rapid growth, he’d never heard of such betrayal. He supposed it was only a matter of time before corruption worked its way into their system. The more people you involve in an organization, the more likely it becomes a bad apple will find its way into the pack.

  “What do you think?” the man outside asked.

  “Part of me doesn’t believe you. This could be a bluff.”

  “I know you’re a man of your word. And I assure you I am as well. A gentleman’s agreement is all I’m proposing.”

  “How can I believe you when you won’t even tell me your name?” Chris felt he was losing control of the conversation, causing a bubble of frustration to inflate.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to think we’re friends—I just want to make what I think is a fair trade. I have access to Commander Strike unlike anyone else and can let you know exactly where she’ll be at any given time.”

  Chris looked to Duane, who had remained a statue with his brows furrowed and his hand cupped over his chin, keeping his stare to the floor as if the secret of life were written down there.

  “I need a minute,” Chris said. “Don’t go away.”

  He removed the headset and dropped it on the desk. Duane finally looked up, looking like someone had just shot his mother.

  “What do we do?” Chris whispered.

  Duane shrugged before saying, “Part of me believes him—scratch that, I do believe him. I just can’t figure out why he’s doing this, and that’s what’s keeping me skeptical.”

  “It seems too good to be true, right? We just hand over these 50 useless prisoners we have, and we get Strike in return? Does this guy even know the possibilities that arise from us having Strike?”

  “I know that, and that’s why I’m trying to think of any advantage they could gain from having the prisoners back. They don’t have any knowledge of our operations and have only seen the front entrance and basement of this house.”

  “Do you think he’s just trying to get the barricades down? Maybe planning an attack that way?”

  “Possible, but not necessary for him to come here and make this offer. They could’ve just waited for that to happen—we’ll have to drop the barricades eventually, and I’m sure they know that.”

  “Then what the hell is he really up to?”

  “I can’t say, but I think we should do it. I’m trying to think of the worst thing that could happen by us releasing these prisoners, and it simply doesn’t hold a flame to what we’d be gaining by having Strike in our possession. You should accept this offer.”

  Chris watched the screen, the Road Runner standing patiently in the cold, awaiting an answer to a question bizarre in every shape and form. He grabbed the headset and slipped it back over his head.

  “I accept your offer,” he said. The man on the screen showed no emotion to the response. “To keep this honest, I’ll agree to release half of the prisoners before we receive Strike, and the rest after she’s in our control. Can we agree on that?” The man didn’t move, and Chris adjusted his headset to make sure his voice was carrying outside. “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you. I’m thinking,” the Road Runner snapped.

  He stood in silence for what felt like an eternity as Chris watched the speck on the screen ponder his decision. The man had come this far and risked his life to make this offer; there was no way he was leaving without some sort of agreement.

  “I can agree to those terms,” he finally responded. “As soon as I see the first group of people released, we’ll need a couple days to make sure they’re healthy—we don’t want any damaged goods. If everything checks out fine, I’ll be back the following day with Strike’s schedule and can help you plan a way to capture her. When can I expect to see my people freed?”

  “I’d rather not share that information with you. I still don’t trust something about this situation, and I’m not going to tell you when my barricade will be down. It’ll be done within the next three days, but you need to ensure me you’ll have your men in the trees back down.”

  “I can ensure that if you do the same. I don’t want to see another dead Road Runner on the edge of your property as soon as you let them go. If you do that, I promise you’ll stay hiding in that shell of yours forever.”

  “Deal,” Chris snapped. He hadn’t considered doing such a thing—Strike was too valuable of an asset to risk.

  “Perfect. Like I said, when we get our men back, give me forty-eight hours to return. I can’t guarantee a certain time. Would it be okay if I have to come back in the middle of the night?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you soon.”

  The Road Runner turned and disappeared back to the woods where he had come from.

  “Well, this just got interesting,” Duane commented.

  “Yes, indeed,” Chris said. “Very interesting.”

  He watched the monitor as the man shrunk to a small black dot in the distance before disappearing for good.

  102

  Chapter 9

  Martin crunched into the back seat of the crowded car as Gerald drove them out of downtown Denver, heading east to the town of Watkins.

  Gerald had tried to keep the mood light with small talk, but when no one responded, it became clear that all of their minds were elsewhere, likely wondering what the future had in store.

  While the anxiety stabbed Martin in the gut, his mind kept wandering to his mother. On the other side of this trip was a better life. A life with no Alzheimer’s. A life with no worries. And hopefully, a life with no more war. He decided that when he returned, he wanted no more of the Road Runners, Revolters, Chris, or any of the bullshit that came with his magical liquid. He
’d dump that shit down the drain and never look back, and if Commander Strike couldn’t respect that, then she was full of shit about how accepting the Road Runners were.

  The sun reached its peak and beat down on the world. Martin thought about Lela and what she might be doing on this beautiful day. Even though she was behind bars, she had managed to remain in the forefront of his mind at the most random of times. She had, after all, hurled the pan that changed both of their lives forever. Would things have played out differently if she confessed to the accident from the beginning? Absolutely.

  But she didn’t. And now they were in their current situations of a prison with bars and a prison of time travel and war.

  When they reached the freeway and Gerald sped up to 70 miles per hour, Martin glanced around at his peers, wondering what kinds of journeys had brought them to this point in time. Every Road Runner he met had joined the organization out of a hunger for revenge on Chris. Somewhere along the path, the old man had wreaked havoc on their lives, pushing them to think they had no choice but to dedicate their lives to finding a way to end him.

  These men in the car seemed completely content with their lives. But Martin also knew how easy it was to fake a smile when the pain became buried deeper in the past with each passing year. Odds were that these men had an equally painful story that drove them forward, but were they as committed as they appeared on the surface? Or did they each have a selfish motive, like Martin?

  The engine hummed as they moved along I-70 and Martin pondered. Perhaps they’d all bond and develop a brotherhood during this trip. If they did, they’d surely get to know each other’s stories.

  The car pulled off the freeway, taking the exit for Watkins. Gerald led them down a frontage road that twisted into the middle of nowhere. “We’re here,” he called out. Everyone looked around at the open fields that stretched to the horizon.

  “You sure about that?” Brigham asked, a giggle caught in his throat.