And the Tide Turns

by Timothy Dalton

  Amhurst took the book, and his eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed, as he stared at it.

  The man spoke, breaking the short silence. “Do you know what you are holding?”

  “Indeed I do,” Amhurst said, pursing his lips. He stared up at the man with wary eyes. “This is my journal, why did you take it from my lab?”

  The man smiled thinly. “I’m going to come clean, Dr. Amhurst; I found this book.”

  “As I have concluded; in my lab, no doubt. What have you done to it?” Amhurst felt a compulsion to launch himself at the man, demanding answers with ferocity. Fear and old age, however, calmed his rushing blood.

  “This is the condition in which I found it,” the man said, his voice flat. Before Amhurst had a chance to respond he added, “Thirty-three years from now.”

  ***

  “I still don’t understand,” Amhurst said, staring at the stranger. “Where did you find this?” he asked for the second time.

  Moments ago, he’d suggested it would be best if the conversation was taken inside – not only for a reprieve from the cold, but Amhurst would rather not have any errant ears listening to their dialogue.

  “Not to sound morbid, but we – myself and some fellow associates – discovered it in your grave.”

  The thought of his body being raided carried with it too many disturbing thoughts. Amhurst placed the decaying journal on the coffee table and gaped at it, a horrified look crossing his face.

  The man removed his hat, bringing the nasty burn into full view. The right side of his face was scarred from mouth to hairline. Amhurst tried not to stare.

  “We had information that at your death you requested to be buried with it,” the burned man said. “As you may have guessed, I’m not from around here. And when I say here, I mean this period in time.” He locked eyes with Amhurst, waiting for him to catch the meaning. When Amhurst did, the man continued, “I need your help, Doctor, and clearly you need mine.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your desire to travel back and save your wife and child, of course. We can facilitate that.”

  Amhurst said nothing, uncomfortable with the realization that his guest seemed to know everything about his life, and he didn’t even know the stranger’s name.

  “We have tried, unsuccessfully, to decipher your journal so that my people and I can travel into the future as you have. Help us with what we need, and in return we will help you save your family.”

  Amhurst still didn’t speak. He’d never wanted anyone to know about what he was now capable of. It could be extremely dangerous in the wrong hands; perhaps even his own. Yet here he was, barely an hour from his spring forward, already thinking about the adjustments and calculations to make when he got back to work. If this man did possess the key to travel back, Amhurst wanted it – desperately so – but wariness persisted in his mind. Finally, his courage broke the lull. “And what is it you intend to gain from the future?”

  “There is a great war coming, Dr. Amhurst; one that will be forever remembered in the history books.” The man flashed a smile that didn’t look natural. “I want to be on the winning side. I need your help to ensure victory.”

  Amhurst didn’t approve of war. He was a man of peace and science; he always had been. His eyes traced upwards to the picture above the mantle, and with an aching heart he peered at the lovely image of Celice. His gaze touched on every detail of her face as he had done so often before, and he felt his gut instinct falter. Even after all these years, he missed her terribly.

  Then again, this total stranger had mentioned a great war. What would that mean for his unborn child or future grandchildren? I could keep them safe. With the power to travel back in time, they could go anywhere and live out their lives in peace, just the way he wanted it.

  With reluctance, Amhurst looked away from the portrait and met the stranger’s gaze. This man had been waiting for him at his door, like opportunity itself greeting him in the flesh. Amhurst felt himself nod in agreement without further thought, then held out his hand to accept this life-changing encounter. “I never got your name.”

  A slight smile ticked up at the corner of the man’s mouth as he fixed a piercing gaze on Amhurst. He held out his own hand in return. “It’s Gernot. Gernot Kalkolov.”

  37 Time Drop

  November 29, 1948, 8:00 PM

  Thin wisps of smoke and dust swirled around Blake Tannor’s prone form. He stirred and slowly opened his eyes; he was lying face down in the dirt. For a long moment his mind was a blank, not remembering who – or where – he was. Then it came to him in a rush of memory, and he closed his eyes, rolling over on his back to take in a deep breath.

  He stayed like that for a while until he found the strength to crane his head up and look around. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been here before regaining consciousness, but he’d made it – at least, he’d made it somewhere; the exact date he’d have to find out soon.

  He gave himself a once-over and moaned at the aches in his body and the disheveled state of his clothes. He looked and felt nothing like Arnold Schwarzenegger from the Terminator movie. The scene of the Model 101 machine rising gracefully from a kneeling position ran through Blake’s mind, and he let out a raspy grunt of a laugh. Having woken up planted face first in the earth, he hardly resembled the lumbering coolness of that killing machine from the future. On the contrary, he’d arrived more like the supporting protagonist Kyle Reese – battered, bruised, and groaning. Blake’s lips were dry and dust covered; this alone required him to spend some time spitting dirt-turned mud from his mouth.

  When he felt strong enough, he pushed himself upright and looked around again, spotting his travel bag close by. He forced himself to rise to his feet, wobbling as he stood, as if the synapses in his brain were misfiring. He walked on reluctant limbs and, after a few steps, plopped down on the duffel bag to rest some more.

  Blake glanced around and noted the pattern on the ground where he’d crash landed. It looked like his body had been thrown hard against the earth from the force of the wormhole that had swallowed him up and spit him out. Blake wasn’t sure what he’d expected for his entry into 1948, but making such a violent one was something he hadn’t anticipated.

  Wallace told him the process wouldn’t be painless. That was an understatement. Blake felt remarkably older than he had just moments before, when he existed in 1986; like the jump back had sapped a lifetime from his body. And his throat felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. He coughed, and the pain grew worse. He winced, and took a shaky breath. Hell, it even hurt to breathe.

  He spent the next while settling his body and mind down and after a little time he was able to stand without the weakness in his knees. But he still took a moment to focus more on his surroundings. He appeared to be on the outskirts of a town, not far from a road leading to the world beyond. Wallace had said it was important to travel back to a location where he wouldn’t bring attention to himself, and Blake had to admit the man was right. He could only imagine what would have happened if he’d popped into 1948 in the middle of a crowd of townsfolk.

  Car lights in the distance tore through the darkening night like slow moving comets streaking through the sky. Blake grabbed the duffel’s hand strap and began to drag his things in the direction of the road. The bag carved a snaking trail in what he hoped was Australian soil. He realized that he should have opened it to check his things, but it was far too dark now. Blake figured if he’d made it here in one piece then everything inside the bag would be undisturbed as well.

  What felt like ages later, he managed to get to the strip of road in time to flag down the oncoming vehicle. When it slowed and pulled over, Blake – car enthusiast that he was – noted the make and model: a Standard Twelve four door.

  The driver rolled down the window and poked his head out, squinting in the dim light. His graying scalp sported a well-worn fedora, which he pushed back to get a better look at Blake. “Are you alright mister? Are yo
u stranded?”

  “I guess you could say that.” The sound of Blake’s own voice hurt even his ears. It came out like cobbles scratching against each other and created more searing pain in his throat. He tried to swallow, then coughed.

  The driver and passenger in the old car recoiled, eyeing him with sudden wariness.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve been sick for a few days now and I can’t seem to shake this one.” Blake attempted a grin, but the vehicle’s occupants still regarded him with suspicion.

  “You haven’t been coughing up blood have ya?” the man inquired.

  “No, nothing like that, just really sore.” Blake rubbed his throat to reinforce the point.

  Relief passed over the man’s craggy face. “I thought it mighta been the Tuberculosis.”

  Blake shook his head, not wanting to speak more than he had to. The first thing he was going to do when he got anywhere close to a store was buy a jug of water. He’d never been so thirsty in his life.

  “So how’d you end up out here? You don’t sound like you’re from around these parts.”

  Blake shrugged. “Some guy gave me a lift, but this was as far as he brought me.”

  “Really?” The man frowned and scratched his head beneath the brim of his hat. “The last turn off is a ways back.”

  Blake didn’t know the topography of the land, but he knew he looked like he’d made a long hike. “I’ve been walking for a while.”

  “I wonder why the fella didn’t just take you the last leg into town?”

  “He seemed to be in a rush, but I was lucky enough to be taken this far.” Blake gestured toward the road. “Is that next town Adelaide?”

  “Yup.” The man heaved open his door and climbed out. “Well, let me help you with your things. We were on our way to a gospel meeting, but we can take you on into town.”

  “I really appreciate it,” Blake said, smiling with genuine relief that at least he was where he needed to be and that he wouldn’t have to walk all the way to Adelaide. Now to find out if he was in the right year.

  The man stuck out a calloused palm. “I’m Lester Creswick, and that’s my wife, Grace,” he indicated with a tick of his head.

  Ethan took the man’s hand and offered a greeting to Mrs. Creswick. “Ma’am.” Then he said to Lester, “My name’s Eth– eh, Blake … Blake Tannor.” It felt alien to introduce himself this way, but if he wanted to be associated by his middle name he needed to start using it.

  Lester helped him load his bag into the back seat and Blake climbed in beside it, settling himself behind Grace on the passenger side.

  In the company of his new acquaintances, Blake didn’t want to rouse any unneeded questions, but he had to be certain what year it was. Asking outright would get him some looks and he didn’t feel like giving up his free ride into town. He glanced around the interior of the vehicle; this Standard Twelve appeared to be the 1937 model. “This is a nice car. How old is it?”

  Lester started the vehicle up and continued back onto the road. “Betsy,” he said as he patted the dashboard. “We call her Old Betsy. She’s eleven years now, but we take good care of her.”

  Quick math told Blake he’d been spot on. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or fully terrified to be so far away from … home.

  “So, where are you staying in Adelaide?” Lester asked.

  “I haven’t figured that part out yet. As you can tell from my accent, I’m new in town.” Blake smiled at the old man through the rearview mirror. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  Lester thought for a moment. “Well, there’s The Lion Inn, and a few bed and breakfasts here and there, but that’s about all I know of. We live close enough to town that we don’t need to rent a room when we make the trip in.”

  Blake mulled over this information. He would have to make something work, even if it meant sleeping on the street for a night.

  Lester’s voice broke in through his musings. “You could stay at our house if you need. Do you have family in Adelaide?” Grace didn’t say a word, but Blake could hear her staring at her husband.

  There was no need to create a rift between the generous couple. “Something like that; I’ve got an uncle there.”

  It was surreal to think that Uncle Tobias was here – alive – and weirder still that he would be in his prime years. The temptation to seek him out was strong, but Blake knew he shouldn’t risk coming into contact with his uncle. Doing so might somehow change the course of history, upsetting the balance. If that happened, Tobias might never befriend his parents to become Uncle Tobias, which in turn would alter his own life and ruin the continuity Wallace held such regard for.

  The memory of his parents hit him with a rush of adrenaline, and Blake’s heart thumped with fury in his chest at the sudden realization that he stood at the edge of an unknown precipice. When he was finished here – so long as he didn’t die in the process – he would find a way to stop them from getting killed in that car crash. Changing that was the one knot in the chain that he could tamper with. The life of his future self would change and he may never even become a detective. His thoughts drifted to Art then, and a pang of regret hit him. He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye …

  “There are some good restaurants in town,” Lester was saying. “During your visit you’ll have to eat at –”

  “Les! Keep your eyes on the road!” Grace shouted.

  The car swerved to miss an oncoming set of headlights before steadying itself back smoothly on course. Blake’s heart gave another jolt, his stomach lurching in sudden fear.

  Wallace’s warning about not interacting too much with people along the way came to his mind with sobering clarity. He had placed this couple’s life in mortal danger just from conversing with them. What if they had all died just then? With him dead, the mission would be a failure before it even got started, and he’d never stop his parents from meeting the same demise he nearly had seconds ago.

  If that happened, everything would remain the same. He’d eventually be born, his parents would die, Tobias would kill himself, Fredericks would die, Wallace’s men would capture him and convince him to go through with this crazy mission, and he’d be sent back to 1948. Then he’d head to the road and meet this exceptionally nice couple, and they’d all be dead again. Those events would be in motion to rinse and repeat for an eternity.

  The lights of Adelaide twinkled up ahead, but the only thing on Blake’s mind was the thought of his life being caught in an infinite loop, ending the same way every time.

  Dead. In 1948.

  38 Whoa Brother, Where Art Thou?

  November 30, 1948, 7:27 AM

  It was strange to realize that he was in an era from before his own birth. The world around him carried with it a slow hum, a stark contrast to the blaring frenzy of 1980’s New York City.

  Blake sat in one of the diner’s window booths, studying the passersby outside. Men opened up doors for women who were dressed in the most unusual garb by his own standards. Clothing seemed to be a dim gray, faded black or dull brown – much different than the loud colors of his time. The clothes he wore helped him fit right in – on the outside, anyway. On the inside it was a different story. He had a superior edge to the populace of Adelaide; the future to these people was a mystery, but he knew of things to come. To Blake it felt like reading a book for the second time, the ending already known.

  He thought of how the people here would feel as they heard the news that Neil Armstrong took his first steps upon the moon’s surface. Hell, he was just a boy when that happened and he’d been filled with the type of amazement only a child can know. When the momentous event transpired again, it would not carry the same emotional pull as it had when he first witnessed the footage from Apollo 11, anxiously wondering how – or if – they would ever make it back. Blake already knew the crew would return to Earth, safe and sound.

  Then it hit him: Unless I change history. Ben Wallace’s words floated through his mind: “Stay as low profile as pos
sible.”

  On cue, Blake felt a stinging itch in his forearm where the tracking device had been injected. He pulled back his sleeve and saw that a red and purpling bruise had formed. High in the sky an unknown satellite was monitoring his movements, but Blake couldn’t help but feel that he had been cast into solitary. He gave his arm a quick scratch and then yanked his sleeve back down to cover his watch. Out of his entire outfit, it was the one thing that did not fit in here.

  He stared through the window again and lost himself in the world outside.

  “Need a refill on that coffee, mister?”

  Blake snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of a voice. He looked up and saw the proprietor standing at his table with a carafe in hand. “Oh, yes, please.” Blake pushed his cup to the edge of the table.

  “What was your name again?” the man asked.

  “Blake. Blake Tannor.” It still felt weird to use the name, but at least he didn’t stutter and stumble over the answer this time.

  The man halted in mid pour, his eyes squinting in a way that made him seem to be peering at the top of his own skull, like he was locking Blake’s name and face away for future reference. “Well, Mr. Tannor, you let me know if you’ll be needing anything else.”

  Blake picked up his fresh cup of coffee and held it aloft as if saying “Will do.” The server nodded and moved on to the other patrons. Blake gave a soft blow over the lip of the cup to cool its contents, but it was still much too hot to drink. He sat the blazing hot goodness down and began on his meal.

  It wasn’t until he’d cut into his biscuit and forked a bite in his mouth that he remembered the pills. He reached into his coat pocket and took out one of the ‘I’-stamped tablets Wallace had given him, washing it down with the smoky tasting java. The fresh heat of the fluid burned the soreness in his throat, and he grimaced. As much as Blake hated it, he would have to make the personal sacrifice and only drink water for the next few days. He just couldn’t enjoy his coffee with every sip feeling like liquid fire.