Outcasts: Short Stories by Nick Wisseman

by Wisseman, Nick

  Blake’s first bite of bread was more vigorous than he meant it to be, and ultimately ineffective: the words remained. But the bread was gone within seconds.

  Chuckling in a lighter, higher-pitched tone than that of her speaking voice, the woman motioned for him to hand the plate back. “I’ll bring you some more, then.”

  She bustled out of the room before he could respond, leaving him to reconcile the little he’d seen and heard with the pedantic blurbs still invading his head.

  When bounties are offered for whereabouts of the damned, the ensuing backstabbing and headhunting plunges the city into chaos.

  The smell of fresh bread reentered the room several seconds before the woman. “Here, child.”

  “Thank you again…But—”

  “Eat. I’ll brook no argument.”

  Blake tried to push the plate back towards her as respectfully as possible. “It’s wonderful—”

  “Chew.”

  A young Julius Caesar, one of the many proscribed, manages to be one of the few to escape.

  After contemplating the woman’s baleful expression, Blake reached for the top slice.

  She nodded her approval but made no move to go, apparently intending to watch every mouthful.

  So he ate. And ate. And ate, until the woman finally grunted and eased the plate away. “You’ll feel better now.” Her smile was back, and so was the high-pitched chuckle. “Mercy, but you needed that. Now, I’m Clodia. What will you be answering to?”

  Sulla’s absolute power—authority so total the old tyrant can walk the streets of Rome at night without fear—is not an example Caesar forgets.

  Blake hesitated for a moment, waiting until his thoughts were free of intrusions. “Brutus. And, I’m sorry—knock on the head—but is this Rome? Are we really in Rome?”

  Clodia looked at him skeptically. “The Subura is as much a part of Rome as any other, ‘Brutus,’ even if it is doesn’t smell as good as Palatine Hill and all its fancy manors. It’s not what Master Curio’s accustomed to, but it will serve until he can pay back his creditors.” She lifted the plate off the bed and turned to go. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”

  “Clodia, I—”

  “Sleep, child.” The old woman swept out of the room and slammed the door shut behind her, leaving Blake alone with his confusion.

  * * *

  He woke to what seemed like blinding light…until his eyes adjusted and he realized it was only the dim glow of partially obscured stars. Listening quietly before making any movement, he noted that the house as well as the world outside seemed remarkably, unnaturally still…More so than he would have expected of any city—at any time of day or night—much less a teeming metropolis like Rome in the first century B.C.

  It still seemed insane, but he’d known where he was for sure once the images started pouring into his head…Legions marching against Germans, Italians, and then themselves…Togaed noblemen shouting hoarsely before being knifed from behind…He was caught up in the fall of the republic. At a pivotal point, after the first civil wars but before everything really started unraveling.

  His stomach growled. He must have been out for a while. Clodia had apparently been in at some point during his nap; four more slices of bread and an earthenware mug of water sat atop the end table. He ate and drank as noiselessly as his greed would allow. Once he was full, he moved to set the mug and plate back on the table, stopped, stared, and blinked in disbelief.

  A trick of the light, no more. His addled mind playing tricks on him…He needed a better look.

  The window revealed itself to be no more than a hole in the wall veiled by dingy cloth. After a moment of brief clambering, Blake was on the street, silhouetting his arm against the moon as he rotated his hand back and forth at the wrist.

  Smooth as a baby boy’s, as if it had never known a day’s work. And stained a darker brown, giving his skin an almost wooden hue. The day the car…hit him…he’d been pale and freckled. With fairer hair. Finer hair. Not these coarse black tendrils littering his forearm. Hadn’t he been taller, too? Heavier?

  A soft laugh echoed down the line of darkened buildings.

  Blake scrambled to the closest doorway, struggling to control his sudden panting. Unwilling to risk creaky hinges, he flattened himself against the door as a bent figure tottered into view.

  The robed form gradually sharpened into a bald old man whose shadowed features became increasingly gruesome as he drew closer. Blake’s labored breathing stopped altogether as the hideous details came into final focus: what may once have been a beautiful face was now a pockmarked horror, ravaged by some terrible disease. But the mouth still looked…wise. Even kind, set as it was in a pensive expression.

  The old man stopped suddenly as he drew even with Blake. After a terrifying pause, the same quiet laugh came rumbling up, eerily strong for such a crooked form.

  And Blake felt something snap inside him.

  His emotions flashed from fear to anger to rage. Questions demanded answers where there were none; confusion sought release. With a growl that rapidly swelled to a yell, he sprang from his corner and rushed forward.

  A twang vibrated through the air. Blake froze in mid-lunge, staggered back, and fell to his knees and then onto his face as pain exploded through his ribs. The arrow snapped beneath him as he slumped against the cobblestones, its feathers whispering as they slithered across the smooth brick.

  “Hold, soldier. Sheath your sword; the bolt served him well enough.”

  A rough hand tightened around Blake’s neck. “You don’t want me to finish him, dictator?”

  “I would look on him first, Milo.”

  “As you wish.” The hand squeezed harder, rolled Blake over, and let go.

  He shuddered, his mouth filling with a sweet acid.

  “Smallish man, but brave it seems.”

  Blake’s vision began to glaze over, blurring the old man’s ravaged face into two overlapping visages, one of health and one of sickness.

  “And not of this era, it would seem.”

  Wait, was that English? Blake tried to reply, but managed only a broken gurgle.

  “Better luck next jump, shifter.” The voice switched back to Latin. “I’ve seen all I care to, Milo.”

  Blake’s sight failed.

  “Yes, dictator.”

  Another blade pierced his ribs.

  * * *

  Log, second entry:

  The pain’s fading…Quicker this time. How do I turn off this “log?”…Tunic’s gone. And my hands are pale again…That old man spoke in English. Called me “shifter.” In English…

  Are you there, Galen? Was that you in “Rome?” Did you enjoy killing me? How many times is that, now? What did I do to—

  A flickering again…Galen?

  * * *

  “Galen?”

  “None other.” The old man’s snowy beard flounces in rhythm with the pogo-stick beneath him. Galen maneuvers expertly toward Blake, tank top and biker’s shorts hanging loosely from his bony frame. “First things first: you are the metaphysical law of all you see here, sonny.” He gestures at the emptiness before bringing both arms to rest atop the stick’s handles as he begins balancing instead of bouncing.

  Letting his hand fall from his re-healed chest, Blake stares hard at Galen, eyes blazing.

  “Stop pouting. I’m just enjoying my last days before retirement. Don’t worry: you’ll be at least as eccentric when your time is over. But where were we? Ah, yes—my favorite part. Wish for a monkey.”

  Blake’s brows lower even further. “Wish for a monkey?”

  “Well done, Blake, that is what I said. Now: let’s see it.” The old man nods expectantly.

  Blake breathes in, breathes out…and charges, bending low like a football player preparing for a tackle.

  Galen snaps his fingers and a ten-by-ten square of gorillas appears to his left, dancing the Charleston. Taking both hands off the pogo stick, he directs the troupe of simians with one index
finger while closing Blake’s gaping jaw—which had stopped short inches away from his own—with the other. “I suppose gorillas are technically apes, or at least so the anthropologists would classify them. Odd lot they are…But that’s beside the point, which is that this is your own personal playground. You’re the genie here. Now live up to it: concentrate and make those prancing primates stop for the good of us all.”

  Blake slouches back. Does nothing, says nothing.

  “Your age, Blake, not your shoe size.” Galen suddenly starts spinning, gaining speed with each rotation on the pogo stick. His beard flies up level with Blake’s nose, whirling just an inch beneath it before the old man grabs the tip and pulls it to his chin. “Focus, sonny. Close your eyes if it helps. Seems like that’s how I started.”

  Blake shakes his head, watching incredulously as the gorillas start twirling in time with the old man, a hundred and one furry blurs amidst the black.

  “Just try, sonny. Quickly now, before they all have heart attacks. Easier on the point of a pogo-stick, you know.”

  Biting his lip, Blake stares for several moments before slowly closing his eyes. His brow furrows again; his hands clench, unclench, and clench again; his breaths come in ragged bursts. When a bead of sweat drips from his nose onto his chin, he shakes himself and looks again.

  Galen reclines before him in the easy chair from their last meeting, dressed in the same neon-blue suit, with the same glass raised to his lips. “Not bad, sonny, not bad. Although I already miss those fellows…But keep it in mind, Blake. You control the all and the everything in here; it’s yours to mold. Now conjure something comfortable to sit on and we’ll chat in whatever time you have left.”

  Blake stares for several moments at the point where the gorillas just were, and then shakes himself and closes his eyes again. Upon reopening them, he finds himself stretched full length in a silk hammock, the ends floating on either side. He sways gently to no breeze.

  Galen throws back his head and roars. “So you do have a sense of humor, sonny. Not bad, not bad at all. Oh my, I haven’t laughed like that in ages. Ahem…Now, questions?”

  Blake’s momentary wonder at manipulating his surroundings begins to wear off. Anger and bewilderment return. “I’m dead, then.”

  “Most definitely.”

  “And did you just kill me?”

  Galen leans back slightly and takes a sip from his bourbon. “Now that I wasn’t expecting. Care to explain?”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “Humor an old man, sonny, or we won’t get anywhere.”

  It takes several deep breaths before Blake can respond in an even tone. “The dictator Sulla, just before ordering my death, called me a shifter. In English.”

  Galen spews bourbon into the void, the droplets diminishing rapidly as they fall from sight. His laughter jiggles the folds of snowy beard into furry waves. “You tried to kill an epicenter, didn’t you? On your second jump?…Wait, sonny…Whew, but that’s rich on so many levels…Blake, stop wasting time.”

  Blake keeps walking into the dark, eyes locked straight ahead.

  “Have it your way, then…But a real mover and shaker on the second jump? Almost unheard of. I didn’t try to kill Mussolini until my seventh.” Galen appears on Blake’s left, keeping pace in his now levitating easy chair as he refills his cup.

  Immediately turning the opposite direction, Blake finds the old man sipping away directly in front of him.

  “Coincidentally, though, that was Philip, my old mentor. Retired as a Roman power-monger…A much more stressful ending than I’m planning. That’s how he recognized you, though: shifters can see each other for what they are. Sometimes it takes a few minutes, but eventually their true face shines through.” Galen laughs again. “Oh my, sonny. So rich…But you can’t kill, Blake. First rule. Shoot, stab, burn, hang as hard as you like; it’s the only thing beyond you. Not your purpose.”

  Whirling, Blake finds Galen has imposed himself on the entire visible spectrum. He shuts his eyes, his fists pulsing at his sides. “Then what is my fucking purpose, old man!?!”

  “You’re not a fighter, sonny. You’re an observ—blast it, man! Focus! Oh, for crying out loud…We’ll talk when you get back.”

  Blake feels himself dissolving from the inside. “Galen!”

  “If you were sick last time, you’ll be fine this trip. Alternates for some reason…But it’ll fade eventually, once you get more control.”

  Everything tornadoes into nothing.

  * * *

  By now your mentor should have briefed you on the basics. To reiterate, here are the first two rules:

  How can I be reading this when I can’t see anything else?

  1) You can’t kill.

  2) You’ll get killed.

  Is this just in my head?

  The third run is the final trial. It should be fairly intense. Be ready to improvise; you won’t have much other choice.

  I’m ripping again…But…there’s no pain?

  Bon voyage.

  * * *

  Recycled waves lapped against a waking beach. The sun inched out over the water, still only a dull glow but growing steadily with each crash of the surf.

  Blake rose to his feet, relieved to be feeling none of the previous jump’s pain. Sweeping the sand off his khakis, he paused as he recognized them for vintage military apparel. He doffed his white cap for confirmation: authentic U.S. Navy. He should know—his granddad had done thirty years of active duty.

  Unreal. He was in the service, then. And a good four or five inches taller…Blake shook his head and turned to take in the rest of his surroundings.

  A flash of crimson spurted across his vision, vanished behind the now gleaming sun, and reappeared on a palm tree to his left.

  Palm tree? And that bird…

  He’d been here before. It was one of his few clear memories from age six, the last period he remembered his parents coexisting. The air had tasted a little different, the trees hadn’t looked quite as fresh, and the sand had felt dirtier…but he’d been here before.

  Christ. Shit. A U.S. Navy uniform? On this beach? What the hell was the date? He had the where, but what the fuck was the when?

  As Blake spun around to reorient himself, he churned up a plume of glistening sand that sent the red bird streaking skywards again. If memory served, the main port was to the East, maybe ten miles along the coast. Quite a hike, but there really weren’t any other options.

  Slipping off his boots with two smooth kicks, Blake stuffed his socks in the heels, tied the laces together in a bowknot, and took off at a brisk jog with the bundle over his shoulder.

  1941 A.D.: Hawaii, United States.

  Jesus.

  * * *

  Honolulu Star: December 6th, 1941.

  The text and images that had stabbed through his thoughts for much of the trek here should have kept this latest confirmation from having much of an impact. But he still felt sick.

  It was already early afternoon, and he had no idea what order he should or even could go about doing this…How to overcome countless combinations of chance and incompetence, military rigidity, miscommunications…And Gramps. His true father, his inspiration for picking up that first historical novel, would lose both legs in roughly eighteen hours. But warning one low ranking relative—if he were even believed—wouldn’t help the other two thousand casualties-in-waiting…This was too much. Too ironic, too contrived. “Damn you, Galen!”

  The short Hawaiian woman who’d sold Blake the paper recoiled slightly, but she kept her open hand extended. Mumbling an apology, he fumbled through unfamiliar pockets until his fingers located a quarter. He turned his back on the surprised stream of thanks—apparently he’d overpaid—walked to a nearby bench, and sat heavily. He was still sweating profusely from the run here, and he could already feel his back sticking—

  “Kyle Wilson?”

  He started noticeably.

  “I was told you might be a little surprised
.” A bronzed teenager, sixteen at the most, flashed a bemused smile. “For you, Mr. Wilson. Courtesy of Mr. Jackson.”

  Blake nodded dumbly, instinctively closing his fingers around the proffered envelope.

  The boy laughed again. “No worries, sir. Mr. Jackson already took care of the tip.” Clearly enjoying Blake’s mystified expression, the boy chuckled and walked off, whistling as he went.

  Blake’s fingers spasmed with the sudden urge to tear the letter to pieces. Who knew he was here? And—even more galling—had the knowledge to call him by his granddad’s name? “Galen, so help me, if this is another one of your god-damned games…”

  The sun began to reflect off the shell-flecked pavement, the light’s movement a reminder of how little time he had. Slowly—painfully—his breathing normalized, his reason resurfaced, and he smoothed out the crumpled enveloped and ran his finger under the flap.

  * * *

  “Please, sir, just raise the alert status…If I’m wrong, and nothing happens, what harm will you have done?”

  The balding commander continued to stare out the window, watching the dock that was still extremely busy even in the failing light. “State your name and rank again, sailor.”

  Blake hesitated, painfully aware of the one—very personal—task he’d yet to complete. “Henry Smith, sir. Private on the Arizona. Please, Admiral Kimmel, sir—”

  Without turning around, the older man held out his hand a few commanding inches from his side. After receiving the expected silence, he lowered his hand. “Several hours ago, Privates Lockhard and Elliot of the signal battalion were telegraphed anonymously that when they spot an unusual cluster of planes on the Oahu radar tomorrow around 0700 hours, they are to report it ‘immediately and unfailingly.’ Shortly thereafter, various captains reported being similarly advised, including a Captain Outerbridge, who was instructed by an unsigned note to raise a full alarm, bypassing the proper channels of authority, when he encounters enemy midget-subs tomorrow morning. Not twenty minutes ago, our liaison with the Star contacted my secretary about the unsolicited tip they were just given concerning hostile ships sighted within a hundred miles of the island. And now a phantom private of the U.S.S. Arizona, a Henry Smith who doesn’t exist, who’s been breaking down my door since 1700 hours, is warning me the Japanese will bomb Pearl Harbor into rubble if I don’t raise the alarm here and now.”