Wealth of Time Series Boxset

by Andre Gonzalez

  “The basement won’t blow up. Besides, what’s the alternative plan to get her out of that house? Are you going to knock on the steel barricade and ask nicely? He’s never going to hand her over.”

  “We’ll negotiate. And thank you for bringing up the barricade. Add that to the list of reasons we can’t drop a bomb. What if the steel deflects it and it bounces back to us? Then what?”

  “It’s a bomb, Bill. It explodes on impact. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing I can say to convince you.”

  “No shit. That’s why I left the office tonight. Not only was I tired, I knew you’d be pressing this matter until four in the morning. And here we are. I’m not approving a bomb, Julian, so I suggest you move on to a different plan. The stars would have to be aligned perfectly for me to even consider it, and we all know that will never happen.”

  “This is why you’ll never be Commander.” Julian spoke in a relaxed voice, no longer enraged by Bill’s stubbornness, but rather clear-headed as he knew what had to be done next.

  “Don’t get all high and mighty. This new power has gone straight to your head. I used to think you were just young and arrogant, but now you’re nothing but an asshole. It’s a good thing we only have two-year terms, or you’d run us into the ground like Chris did with the Revolters.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Bill. I am the Commander now, and I’m aware of my new role, that’s all. I think leaders are misunderstood because they have to make the decisions that no one else will. We have to sleep at night with the weight of the world pressing down on us like an invisible slab of concrete on our chest. When’s the last time you couldn’t fall asleep because of a decision you had to make?”

  “Every single night,” Bill snapped. “Unlike you, I stay up every night worried about our leader and what our future looks like because of her kidnapping.”

  Julian stood from the couch. “I need to use your restroom.”

  The sudden change in subject caught Bill off guard as his jaw hung temporarily open. He clearly had more to say and was ready to explode, but Julian asking to leave the room made his mouth snap shut and left a dazed confusion splattered across his face.

  “Be my guest,” Bill said, defeated. He slouched into the nearby recliner and fidgeted with nervous fingers.

  Julian stepped into the dark hallway, turning to Bill before disappearing. “Oh, and I do worry about Strike and our future, but I have a job to do now because of this mess. I wish you’d hurry up and realize that you do too, and help me make sure our future stays on track.”

  He left the living room without another word, grinning because he knew he just dropped a bomb of guilt on his old friend and mentor. It really was a shame how matters had to end for Bill, but the old man refused to give any support for the most obvious next phase of rescuing Strike and ending Chris.

  Julian entered the bathroom and flicked on the light switch, closing and locking the door behind him. The mixture of nerves and anger caused a slight quiver in his hands, but he rummaged through the drawers and cabinets with intense concentration. There had to be something he could use to end Bill, and he didn’t care how messy it ended up being. Razor blades were nowhere obvious, so Julian scoured through the mountain of toiletries piled on the sink counter.

  Jesus Christ, he thought when he couldn’t find anything sharper than a toothbrush. He paced around the bathroom, racking his brain for a new option. He could try to sneak into the kitchen, but that left him exposed as he didn’t fully know his way around the house in the dark. Bill might also hear him heading the wrong way and come to investigate before he could find a knife.

  He sat on the closed toilet and planted his face into his palms. Trying the kitchen might be his best chance, so he stood and ran through the mental map of the house, imagining how many steps it was to the kitchen through the dark hallway.

  Does the floor creak? He couldn’t recall, but these older hardwood floors likely had some noisy spots when stepped on.

  He stepped to the door, and with his gloved hand on the knob, turned around one more time to make sure he didn’t miss anything. His eyes scanned the room and settled back on the toilet.

  “That’s it,” he whispered. “Easy.”

  Julian returned to the toilet, flushed it, pulled off the heavy porcelain lid from the tank, and reworked the chain that connected to the rubber flapper at the bottom so that it tightened to the point of not closing, forcing the water to run constantly. He had placed the tank lid on the sink countertop, and opened the door to shout down the hallway.

  “Bill! We might have a small problem in here.”

  Julian returned to the toilet to give the appearance that he was studying inside the tank, even jiggling the handle for good measure.

  “What’s the matter?” Bill asked from behind.

  Julian turned, fake worry as his expression. “I don’t know. I took a leak and flushed, but the water won’t stop running. I don’t know too much about toilets.”

  “Let me take a look,” Bill said confidently and approached as Julian stepped aside, toward the sink. He leaned over the tank, his gray hair exposed as a wide-open target.

  The excitement bubbled up within Julian, who couldn’t recall a time where he had ever felt so nervous and giddy in unison. Bill started whistling as he examined the toilet, and Julian knew he had a handful of seconds to take advantage of the old man with his back turned.

  He tiptoed to his left, grabbing the tank lid as gently as possible, the inevitable sound of its clunky porcelain washed out by the toilet’s running water. He held the lid vertically from the middle, hands fixed as if he were reading a thick, hardcover book, and raised it above his head, drowning his veins, heart bulging into his throat.

  “It looks like the chain got tangled and isn’t letting it close,” Bill said into the tank, oblivious to the world behind him.

  “Is that so?” Julian replied, damn near laughing as he spoke.

  You’re doing this for the betterment of the Road Runners, not because you’re a monster, he reminded himself, as if murder could be actually be justified.

  His eyes throbbed as he tightened his grip and swung the lid down with all of his body’s force behind it. The porcelain met Bill’s skull with a THUNK! sound, sending the old man’s face briefly into the tank before his body collapsed to the floor in a heavy thud, knees hitting the ground before falling flat on his back to stare lifelessly at the ceiling.

  Julian had struck him as square as a baseball bat connecting on a crisp home run swing, and he hoped the one hit was all it took. If the porcelain didn’t break, then surely the skull had. Julian grinned at the sight of blood pooling behind Bill’s head, and squatted for a closer look.

  Bill’s blue eyes remained open as his jaw hung, and Julian saw what he believed was a look of relief on his face. If you added up all the time Bill had spent traveling through time, he had likely been living for over 500 years. Perhaps Julian did him a favor by finally letting him get a deep sleep. Perhaps that was just the expression a dead person made after a surprise end to their life.

  Julian closed Bill’s eyes with his gloved hand and propped up his jaw to make him look somewhat peaceful. The blood continued to expand into an imperfect circle around Bill’s head.

  If he’s not dead yet, he will be soon. That’s too much blood to lose from your head, Julian thought, smirking.

  “Sorry, old friend,” he said to the body, standing back up. “This really was my last resort. You forced my hand, but I had to do what’s right for the Road Runners. Now we can end this war, and I’ll even dedicate it in your honor. Rest easy.”

  Julian turned and left the bathroom, the toilet’s water still running, as it would until someone showed up to find the mess. He wanted to go back to the office and start preparing for the bombs, but had to wait. An investigation would soon be underway to solve Bill’s death, and cameras at the office would show what time Julian had left and returned. He would already have questions to answer for
leaving the office before the timeframe of Bill’s death.

  He left the house as quietly as he had arrived, whistling the same tune Bill had while examining the toilet, knowing a new fate waited ahead to change the course of this godawful war once and for all.

  115

  Chapter 22

  Martin continued exploring the city, unable to shake what he had just witnessed from the live broadcast of President Poe. In his brief speech, Poe revealed his true colors and made it clear how the country had progressed to where it was today. If he had time, Martin would try to visit the library—if such thing still existed—and read up on this new president.

  For now, though, he did as Gerald had instructed and explored downtown, avoiding eye contact with everyone he walked by, keeping his head down to blend in with the rest of society. Even the classy businessmen, dressed in their fine suits, had cheered and whistled at the nonsensical video that halted the middle of the day.

  The buzz from the daily presidential address had died down and people continued their day as normal, businessmen on their cell phones, briefcases swinging in their grip as they skittered down the sidewalks. There wasn’t a single homeless person on 16th Street Mall, an anomaly as far as Martin was concerned. The sidewalks were clean and even had a fresh smell oozing from the cracks, instead of the usual stench of piss and body odor he was accustomed to.

  Martin spent the next hour walking up and down the mall, making mental notes of all the new stores and restaurants, none of which would provide any help on their mission. The hospital was another ten-minute walk south of downtown from his starting point at the capitol, and he planned to stroll by there after the sun went down. Knowing how all of the population felt about Road Runners, he decided it best to hide until the sun went down and move in the darkness.

  He stepped into the next bar he approached, a two-level building with chatter pouring from the rooftop and music booming inside. The bar was called Viewpoint Pub, and inside looked no different from any bar Martin had ever been: neon lights in the windows, televisions showing sports, groups of coworkers taking rounds of shots together, and men hitting on women.

  Women! He had passed a couple during his walk, but there were at least five within the bar, not counting the trio who pranced around in tight white shirts and shorts, balancing trays of drinks.

  Martin worked his way through the bar, squeezing through rows of tables until he found a table for two in the back corner. He plopped down and immediately lifted the menu in front of his face, his eyes peering over the top to see if anyone was watching him.

  A waitress skinny as a twig greeted Martin, her black ponytail swaying behind her head as she grinned pearly teeth. “Good evening, sir, my name is Cecilia. Is there something I can get started for you?”

  Martin hesitated lowering his menu, but decided the room was dim enough and this young lady was not likely a headhunter for the Revolters. “I’ll take a glass of scotch and a burger.”

  “Certainly, I’ll bring those right out.” Cecilia flashed one more smile before turning away, a nearby table of five men in suits watching her every step, howling like horny dogs after she disappeared into the back.

  From the corner Martin could see the entire bar. He leaned back in his seat, trying to appear relaxed and blend in. So far no one had paid him any attention and he intended to keep it that way.

  There were a couple others sitting alone, but they seemed content on their cell phones, something Martin wished he had to kill some time. Instead, he gazed at the nearest TV and watched football analysts discuss the week’s upcoming games.

  Over the next ten minutes, the bar filled with downtown workers escaping the office for the day. Cecilia brought him his drink and burger simultaneously, leaving him to eat as the noise level rose to the typical, blurred chaos common in bars and restaurants.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a man in a suit said, approaching Martin’s table. “Can we borrow this chair?” The man placed a hand on the chair across from Martin.

  “It’s all yours.” Martin’s hand immediately fell to his waistband where his instincts thought a gun should have been, but remembered Gerald insisted he not carry one in the city.

  “Thank you, have a good day,” the man said with a quick smile before returning to a nearby table with the chair in hand.

  Martin scarfed his burger while savoring every sip of the scotch, an incredibly smooth blend with a smoky flavor and subtle taste of the barrel. It was comforting to know that scotch improved even more in the future.

  He ordered another round, having at least another 90 minutes before the sun would start setting. His life had turned into a never-ending cycle of chaos once he stepped into 1919 with Sonya, and he couldn’t remember the last time he sat in a bar drinking scotch by himself, a pastime he enjoyed more than life. The alcohol left its tingling sensation from his throat all the way down to his stomach in a pit of delightful warmth. Martin’s fingertips and lips turned numb halfway through the second drink, and that’s when he knew he had the perfect buzz.

  The man in the suit returned with the chair twenty minutes later as his group of friends all stood up to leave. “Are you having a good evening, sir?” he asked.

  Martin had avoided eye contact during their first encounter, but looked at the man this time. He had wavy brown hair, green eyes, and a strong jaw bone. He was built much like Martin’s new chiseled physique, but was at least 20 years younger.

  “I am, thank you,” Martin responded curtly, not wanting to leave the door open for a long conversation.

  The man sat in the chair, planted his elbows on the table, and leaned within a foot of Martin’s face as if he wanted to kiss him. “You’re not from here, are you?” he whispered loud enough to be heard over the music that clashed with the chatter in symphony.

  Martin immediately locked eyes with the man, his pulse jumping at least 30 extra beats.

  “I was born and raised in Denver,” he replied casually, focused on keeping his voice steady and confident.

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Tell me what year you’re from.” The man returned his own confidence as he peered in Martin, demanding the truth.

  “Are you feeling okay, young man?” Martin asked. “It’s 2064, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “What year were you born?”

  Martin opened his lips to respond, but let his jaw hang. The young bastard caught him red-handed. Martin had never bothered to calculate what his year of birth should have been to go along with his lie.

  “I knew it,” the man said, unfazed. “Who sent you? Are you here on official Road Runner business?”

  “What’s a Road Runner?” Martin had no choice but to resort to the childish tactic of playing dumb. Very dumb, in this case.

  “Cut the shit. We’ve heard rumors that there would be a few Road Runners around town this week.” The young man inched even closer, the stench of booze seeping from his lips as he whispered in a practically inaudible voice. “I’m a Road Runner. You can trust me.”

  Martin wanted to believe the kid, but had no idea who to trust. Could the Revolters have been following him all along, inching him on like a donkey chasing a carrot? He looked down his arms, ensuring they had been properly covered up to hide his glowing skin.

  “How did you know?” Martin asked, defeated and unable to look the man in the eyes.

  “We can tell,” the man replied. “A few of us have been undercover long enough to know when someone looks out of place.”

  “Can the Revolters tell?”

  The man looked around the bar to be sure no one was looking at them suspiciously. “Not in a place like this. Maybe in a government building or somewhere with heavy security, but just around town, you’ll blend in fine. I followed you from outside, asked my group of coworkers if they wanted to stop in here for a quick drink once I saw you come in. The moment I saw your reaction for the National Anthem, I knew you weren’t from here. It’s an honest mistake for anyone not from this time—Rev
olter or Road Runner— but the way you kept looking over your shoulder told me all I needed. So where are you from, and who are you here with?”

  Martin had learned after mingling with plenty of Road Runners that when asked where you’re from actually meant when you are from.

  “I’m from 2019, sent here by Commander Strike with a group of three others. Who are you here with?”

  The man nodded. “Straight from the Commander, huh? Impressive. I’m not here with anyone. I was born in 2040, right in the middle of this shit turning for the worse. My family stayed in hiding to survive, and raised me to be a Road Runner at heart, but a Revolter by all outer appearances. There’s a lot of us like this, raised to survive. None of us have ever been to the fancy Road Runner headquarters. The only time we leave the city is to board a plane and fly to another wealthy city across the country.”

  “So you haven’t seen your family since you left them?”

  “That’s right,” the man nodded, staring distantly into the table. “It’s impossible for us to know what’s going on with the organization, all we have as resources are whatever the Revolters want to give us—which is never news about the Road Runners, unless one is getting murdered.”