The Big Ten: The First Ten Books of the Beginnings Series

by Jacqueline Druga

  Joe glanced over the formula scribbled at the bottom. A short one line formula he didn’t understand, nor cared to. That wasn’t his concern. That was Jason’s. Folding the note back up, Joe placed it in a crisp envelope. He’d put it away until it was time to pull it back out. Until then, it couldn’t be seen. The pummeling news that the note warned of paled in comparison to what the note actually meant. It meant change. Change for the better to divert the worst.

  ^^^^

  The ‘boom’ of the main field house door opening, ricocheted like a cannon through the quietness of Beginnings. Lunging into the doorway, arms out some, Henry looked as if he were in attack mode. His nose crinkled, his head went frantically from side to side causing his hair to whip about. Left to right he looked, and then smiled. With the leverage of slightly bent knees Henry dove forward. He landed hard, face first on the cold autumn ground. Slamming his hands in frustration to the dirt he stood, and as if faster than his thirty-four year old body allowed, he took off running.

  The brush of Henry’s wiry speeding body into him sent Cole in a spin. He gained his footing and watched Henry, zigzagging as if making a new path. Henry would run, stop, dive and after a grunt, get back up again.

  Scratching his head, Cole lifted his hand “Henry! What are . . .”

  “Can’t talk now.” Henry faded vocally and bodily. “I’m on a mission.”

  Cole closed his eyes. “Oh, no. Not again.”

  ^^^^

  The feeling of the cloth on the sleeve of his shirt felt so real to Ellen Slagel in her dream. The coarseness of its denim as it slipped through her fingers when he pulled his arm harshly from her as she reached for him. “Dean, wait.” She chased him, running her fingers through her dark blond hair that flew about in her run. “I need to explain.”

  “Explain?” Dean spoke in an almost laugh. “Explain what? That you lied to me?”

  Ellen stared at Dean’s mad yet, hurt face, the expression of pain that was there. Was it magnified in her dream, or was it there when it all happened two years earlier? So many of her dreams, like the one she was having, were filled with the times she was mean, or deceitful to him. It was almost as if--even if it was just her subconscious dream state--that she was trying to change it, to make it all right. And this dream was no exception. “Dean, I want to talk to you about this.”

  “Then we won’t talk on the street.” Dean stormed faster to their home, bolting open the door and walking in first.

  Ellen followed and halted when she saw Joe on the couch. Mid-dream confusion set in. “Joe? Wait. Hold up. Joe you weren’t here when this happened. What are you doing here?”

  Joe stood up from the couch, he laughed loudly, running his hand down his face trying to catch his breath. “Give her hell, Dean.” He walked to the doors, wiggling his fingers and smiling

  Ellen’s mouth dropped open. “This isn’t right.” She couldn’t figure out why Joe was not only being intrusive in her ‘make-it-better-with-Dean’ dream, but he was being so immature as well. “O.K. Dean, time out.” Her raised hands formed the letter ‘T’.

  “Ellen, what now?” Dean ran his hand over his face.

  “Joe wasn’t here when this happened for real. He ruined it. Can we just back . . .”

  “El.” Dean moved forward and grabbed her hand. “All these dreams, you have to let it go.” He clenched her hand tighter.

  Ellen felt it in her dream, the feel of his skin, and the touch of his hand. “I can’t. It’s my way to try.”

  “Try to do what? Change the past. You can’t.” Dean shook his head. “Let it go. I have to leave now.” His hand pulled from hers.

  “But, Dean.” Suddenly Ellen’s hand felt empty. “Dean?” No longer was she standing in her living room but the morgue of the clinic. Standing there facing Dean as he lay on that table. Horrifying the solemn dream she was having. “Dean!” Not wanting to be there, wrestling with herself to awaken, Ellen jumped up in bed calling out. “Dean.”

  His heavy, loud sigh outward filled the silent bedroom, as Frank stopped in the checking of his revolver to turn his head slowly to his wife who sat up in bed.

  “Frank.” Ellen saw the expression on his face. She looked up to his tall body and to his dark eyes that took a moment to stare at her, just stare.

  Subtly Frank shook his head, placed his revolver in his shoulder harness and grabbed his black leather jacket off the foot of the bed. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing and just walked from the bedroom.

  Gripping his coat with his frustration, Frank stopped in the hall. He looked back over his shoulder and peeked through the ajar door to Ellen who sat on the bed, her legs brought up, a pillow cradled to her chest. After a moment of debate, Frank decided the best thing was for his bitterness and her grief not to merge. And with that decision, Frank left.

  ^^^^

  With a slight moaning hum, Andrea folded her hands in a prayer fashion. A small smile was on her face as she sat at her dining room table. “Hungry?”

  Joe finished up his scrambled eggs. “Very. Thanks.” He stood up, grabbed his plate and took it into the kitchen. When he came out, he reached for his cup and downed his coffee.

  “In a hurry as well.” Andrea stood up.

  “Big day, Andrea.” Joe grinned. “Big . . . big day.” he began to leave.

  “My.” She followed. “You are in good spirits. Big day meaning, you’re finally telling Frank about us?”

  Joe stopped, cringed and faced her. “No. That’s not it.”

  “Then what?” Andrea nearly chased Joe to the door. “You are so upbeat.”

  “And with good reason.” Joe grabbed his coat. “We’ll talk later.”

  “Can I have a hint?” Andrea asked with a manipulation look.

  “Well. O.K.” Joe placed on his jacket. “A little one. It has to do with Dean.”

  The smile went to a forced one on Andrea’s face. “Dean? You’re . . . you’re smiling about Dean?”

  “Yes.” Joe gave a pat to Andrea’s cheek. “Let’s just say, and this is telling you a little more than you should know, let’s say I can’t wait until he returns.”

  The air from her gasp preluded any words as she reached for his arm and halted his leaving. “Joseph, Dean . . . Dean isn’t returning.”

  “Yes, he is. Soon.”

  “Joe.” Andrea added a pacifying tone as she stepped into him. Something was not right. She knew Joe wasn’t acting himself, and his words about Dean confirmed it. “Joe. Um, Dean isn’t on vacation dear. He . . . he died.”

  “I know this. Christ Andrea, why do you think I’m so excited about his rebirth?” Joe opened the door and drew up a thinking look. “Was that what it’s called? Yeah. Rebirth. And I told you too much. See ya.”

  Mouth hanging, Andrea raised her hand and readied to speak but the door closed. She folded her arms close and lowered her head. The doctor in Andrea immediately began thinking. The drug Salicain, the one used on Joe, popped in her mind. She hoped what she had witnessed with Joe was just a temporary mental repercussion of the drug, temporary, because Beginnings would be in trouble if it was permanent. Henry would be in charge.

  ^^^^

  Frank saw them as he made his approach to the back gate to do his rounds, the feet that stuck out from the bushes. Feet that moved some, covered in a pair of tennis shoes, connected to the wiggling lanky legs that Frank knew well. Staring down, with his hands on hips, he watched at what appeared to be a struggle somewhere within the big helpless bush. “Henry. What the hell are you doing in that bush?”

  “Nothing now, Frank, thank you very much.” With the crinkling of leaves, Henry scooted himself out. “You scared him away.” Henry brushed himself off.

  “Scared him away? Who? Marcus? Was Melissa’s killer baby running around up here again?”

  “No, not Marcus. She keeps him pretty much chained up most of the time. No, a mouse.”

  Frank tried not to laugh. “A mouse? You saw a mouse?”

  “Yeah,
down near the field house. I was fixing a hatch, and I started to chase him.”

  “Uh!” Frank’s shriek shut him up. “The field house is a mile away. Why were you chasing a mouse for a mile?”

  “To catch him.,” Henry stated with fact.

  “Why? Were you hungry? I heard that the Japanese put . . .”

  “Ha, ha, ha. You’re just the funny guy today aren’t you? No Frank, I wasn’t going to eat him. I hate rodents.”

  “Then why in the world were you chasing a fuckin mouse for a mile? Don’t you think that’s just a little neurotic?”

  “Neurotic? Don’t you think it’s a little stupid, to be asking me why I’m chasing a mouse?” Henry leaned forward with his every accent on his words.

  “Don’t even be treating me like I’m the dumb one here. I wasn’t the one buried in the bush.”

  “You’re not the dumb one? Well when’s the last time you saw a mouse?”

  Frank didn’t answer.

  “Then I’ll tell you--Mr. Big shot, Mr. Make-fun-of-my-heritage, Mr. Funny guy--since before the plague. I know I haven’t seen any mice, rats or any types of rodents since then.”

  “O.K., so there was a mouse, so what? I think the point should be why you were chasing the thing for a mile at six-thirty in the morning.”

  “No, Frank, the point should be where did he come from?”

  “The field house.”

  Grunting loudly, Henry smacked himself in the face. “Forget it.” Henry had reached that point. He had enough of Frank to jump start his morning in the wrong direction. Frank just wasn’t understanding what Henry was getting at. There was something in Beginnings that no one had seen for quite a long time. It made an unexplained entrance and pretty much anything unexplained burns through Henry until it got explained, at least to himself. “I’m going Frank.” He began to walk away, defeated in his trapping of the furry white creature.

  “Henry, wait.” Frank trotted up to him with a look of seriousness. “I want to talk to you.”

  Seeing how Frank had switched his demeanor, mood and mode--not an uncommon occurrence for schizophrenic Frank--Henry saw no harm in it. No mental harm in it. Apprehensively he faced him. “Sure, what’s up?”

  “It’s about Ellen.” Frank saw he had Henry’s attention. “Last night, she was doing good and today . . . today another dream set her off. I want to know if you can check on her for me. See how’s she’s doing.”

  “Yeah sure, Frank, I will. But why don’t you?”

  “Come on, Henry.” Frank shook his head and swung his hand about in a cutting motion. “I wanna help her. I do. I just, I have a hard time being so understanding when she gets like this over him. And I end up not helping her at all.”

  “You’re helping. You really are. Trust me. And you’re gonna have a hard time dealing with her grief. You’re human.”

  “I am.”

  “Yeah and . . . just remember it’s a long process, it takes time. She lost her friend, a good friend.” Henry explained.

  “I know. But I’m having a hard time, Henry, living up to that friend’s memory.”

  “I have a theory on that.” With a raise to the corner of his mouth, Henry lifted his finger, taking on ‘The Theory-man’ look. “When someone dies, people tend to forget all the bad things that they ever did in their lives. Remember in the old world when some postal worker would knock off his branch, and then kill himself? And all the neighbors would talk about how nice he was. It’s the canonization theory. All dead people become saints in the eyes of their loved ones.” Henry noticed the far-off, clueless look on Frank’s face. “I lost you somewhere didn’t I?”

  “Um . . . go back to the part about the postal worker.”

  “Never mind, I’ll talk to you later.” Henry began to walk away.

  “Henry.” Frank saw him stop and turn back around. “Thanks. I appreciate what you’re doing for her. You make her smile.”

  “No Frank, I make her talk. You make her smile. When you see Ellen laughing or smiling when we’re together she’s talking about you.”

  Frank’s head lowered in appreciation of Henry’s words. “Thanks for telling me that. I thought she was talking about Dean when she was laughing.”

  Henry shook his head sadly. “When she talks about Dean . . . she cries.” He closed his mouth tightly. “I have to go.” He moved, pointing backwards with his thumb. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yeah,” Frank nodded, placed himself in the security mode again, and turned back to do his perimeter checks. As he started walking to the back gate, he saw him. Sitting there, playing in the dry leaves as if he owned the place was that mouse. Quickly, Frank stepped forward, bringing down his heavy and large boot upon the mouse’s tail. Watching it squirm to get out of its foot-trap, Frank bent down and picked it up, holding it by the tail he nearly squashed. “Look at you.” He laughed, shaking his head, watching the mouse squirm. “A big guy too. Won’t Henry be happy?” With his forefinger and thumb, Frank flicked the mouse in the head, rendering the squeaking rodent motionless. “Whoops.” Shrugging, Frank shoved the mouse in his jacket pocket and returned to doing his rounds.

  ^^^^

  Jason Godrichson’s hands trembled so fiercely as he clenched the homemade cigarette between his two fingers. He brought the butt to his lips as he worked slowly and with excitement on the formula that he copied from the bottom of his letter. The letter Jason supposed, he’d never see again. But that didn’t matter. The formula would work. It had too.

  As he coughed that tickle from his throat from too large of an inhale, Jason heard that familiar sound, the flash of light in his lab, the sound of a power surge. Not as predominant as the one the night before, but the same none-the-less.

  Jason turned his stool slowly to see the hopping rabbit. He would say the rabbit looked confused, if rabbit’s could look that way. Smiling, Jason walked to the rabbit, bending down, and picking it up under its front paws. Around its neck was a rope, attached to it--a note.

  Laughing with a ‘hee-hee’, Jason excitedly set the rabbit down on the counter and quickly undid the note. He read the note out loud. “You are ten minutes away from completing the formula and making it work. Hurry and look at your watch.” Jason did, and he started to laugh. “Oh I just amuse myself sometimes.” Shaking his head he replaced the note back on the rabbit, the rabbit would need that for when Jason sent him back again. He moved to his work and took another puff of his cigarette before glancing at the furry friend who sat by him, awaiting his repeat travel.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Henry listened to Joe as he spoke, really listened to Joe. But somehow Joe saw it written all over Henry’s face as they sat across from each other in Joe’s office. Henry’s mouth hung open.

  “Henry.” Joe snapped his finger. “It’s true. What do you think?” Joe smiled.

  “I think . . . I think you’re searching.”

  “Searching? What the hell do you mean searching? I’m being very serious here.” Joe leaned back in his chair. “You don’t think it can be done, do you?”

  “No, Joe I don’t. Time travel is not possible. It isn’t.”

  “Regressionating.”

  “Whatever. And I can’t believe you believe him.”

  “And I can’t believe you don’t,” Joe stated. He wasn’t getting ruffled by Henry’s lack of an open mind at the moment. “Who was the one staring at a goddamn wall for months?”

  “But this is different, Joe. You’re talking time travel here. I’m the one who always listens before making my judgment. You, you on the other hand scoff at anything that sounds like its coming from a science fiction movie.” Henry tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Maybe the Salicain impaired your judgment.”

  “Don’t!” Joe snapped forward. “Don’t you dare throw that one at me, young man. I was totally aware when I was under the Salicain. Tell me why you don’t believe this.”

  “Can you tell me why you do?” Henry asked. “Why are you so convinced?�
��

  “I told you. I read the letter.”

  “Then let me read the letter.” Henry suggested so perhaps his eyes could see what Joe’s did.

  “Can’t do that Henry. Council or not, the next person that reads that letter will be Dean.”

  “Dean is dead.”

  “He’s coming back,” Joe insisted.

  “No Joe, he’s not. He’s dead.”

  “Oh, why am I even arguing with you about this?” Joe waved him off. “This whole conversation will be moot and you won’t know anyhow. Only the person traveling through time will know that Dean had originally died.” Joe folded his hands, his serious look on his face told Henry that he thought Jason was telling the truth. “Trust me when I tell you, the letter was the truth.”

  “Joe, now just let me be rational for a second please.”

  “When aren’t you?” Hands out to Henry, Joe leaned far back in his chair. “Shoot.”

  “He’s living out his delusion.” He heard Joe laugh. “No hear me out. He’s living it out and pulling you in. Anyone can write themselves a letter and say it’s from the future. Anyone. That is really stupid . . .”

  “Yeah.” The intrusion of Frank’s comment interrupted their little meeting when he just waltzed in. He handed his father a clipboard. “What’s stupid?”

  “Oh . . .” Henry shook his head. “Jason sent himself a letter.”

  “Hey, that is stupid.” Frank crossed his arms. “And speaking of letters, can you repeat your theory on the postal workers again?”

  “It wasn’t a theory on postal workers, Frank, it was a theory on grief.” Sighing loudly, Henry gripped the arms of the chair to stand.

  “Wait a second.” Frank held his hand out. “I have something for you.”

  Joe saw it. He knew Henry did not. That certain gleam in Frank’s eye. That slight raising of his left eyebrow and the smile that tried to hide. His son was up to something, and Joe waited with baited breath.