Time Series: Complete Bundle

by Claire Davon

  THE TIME SERIES

  BOOKS 1-4

  COMPLETE BUNDLE

  By

  Claire Davon

  BEGINNING TIME

  By

  Claire Davon

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Copyright © 2014 Claire Davon

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written permission from the publisher.

  ASIN: B00IVXZZMQ

  Chapter 1

  The grinding screech of metal on metal shouldn’t have been unusual. Trolleys coming down the hill to the Washington Square stop usually had to apply their brakes with vigor to get the cars to halt at their appointed landing. The squealing that accompanied this action was just a hazard of the trade.

  The train, as it was more properly called, was unremarkable. Painted a slightly flaking green, it consisted of two long tubes coupled together with rectangular windows. It crested the hill, the words North Station emblazoned on the front and headlights that made the cars look vaguely sinister.

  This above ground section of Boston’s subway system, popularly called the “T,” was one of the lines that linked the outlying cities and towns, such as her own Brookline, to the bustling East Coast metropolis. Her line, one of four, was called the “C” line, and started just outside of Brookline, in Cleveland Circle. In this direction, the above-ground piece of the system wound through her pricey town before the subway disappeared in a tunnel before Kenmore Square, famous for Fenway Park and the Citgo sign, and became part of the underground network system. The T carried thousands of commuters to their destinations every morning, and was an integral part of the region. She knew that train was the more correct name, but her parents had always called the cars “trolleys,” and the name stuck, a habit from childhood.

  Fiona saw the trolley cars coming down the hill, and noted that they were slowing by the spray of sparks under the carriage of the trolley as well as the squeal of brakes. It was all distorted and a little out of focus, like an afterimage of a picture you have stared at too long.

  She was standing next to the grass that started where the asphalt of the stop ended, preferring to enjoy a bit of personal space instead of mixing with the other future passengers. Fiona had waved and nodded to a few people when she had arrived at the T stop a few minutes ago, but quickly moved to the side, away from people. The train would pick up plenty of passengers in the two miles between her Washington Square stop and where it went underground. There would be little privacy soon enough and Fiona was enjoying a small piece of solitude while it lasted.

  That was why it was only when she looked down towards the remaining people waiting at the stop that she realized nobody seemed to be aware of the trolley approaching. On this typical rush hour morning, seats–even in this stop early in the route–would be at a premium. The minute the cars were spotted, people would crowd the marked white line, jockeying for position in the place where they estimated the trolley would roll to a halt.

  Instead, the small group was chit chatting, the ones who were personal friends showing each other items on their phones, articles in the Boston Globe, smoking cigarettes, or any number of activities that would cease when the train arrived. They were an eclectic mix of students and office workers, as evidenced by the mix of sneaker and jean clad young adults and men and women in business attire. Her own simple green button down shirt, grey skirt and matching low-heeled grey pumps labeled her as one of the office workers. Nobody seemed to be aware of the subway cars that appeared to be barreling down on them.

  With a growing sense of horror she realized that the trolley was going too fast and closing quickly. The wheels should have been slowing but, as a seasoned subway rider, she knew how much the cars needed to reduce speed, and when, in order to stop. Waiting at her Washington Square T stop, Fiona knew the train was nowhere close to being able to halt. As the trolley drew closer and closer down the hill, she didn’t see any way it would stop in time.

  The tableau shifted again, like a picture tilting from its frame. As she watched, the train slowed, but not from braking, although she thought so at first. The air grew heavy and still, and the rest of the scene slowed.

  “Hey!” she shouted to the oblivious crowd in shock and confusion. The trolley continued its downward descent at quarter speed, matching the suddenly very slow birds and brisk fall wind that made the leaves dotting Beacon Street dance abnormally slowly. The sparks moved like fireflies, arcing off the wheels before winking out.

  “Hey,” she said again when nobody paid her any attention. Even in slow motion, she could see that not one of the twenty-plus people milling around the stop had even flinched at her shout.

  She moved to the nearest person and realized for the first time that she was not moving in slow motion like the rest of the odd scene. The tableau was playing out around her at quarter speed, but she was moving in real time.

  The trolley was close, so close, and Fiona panicked. With the green cars squealing and growing closer, she turned and ran, dodging a street of passenger cars across Washington Street, deftly cutting in and out of the intersection she’d grown up near. The people in their cars also didn’t seem to notice the two-car train that was almost at the stop.

  What happened next seemed to happen in a series of stop-motion jump shots, each a little more horrific. She risked a glance behind her and saw, through the mist, the trolley jumping the tracks, the cars turning sideways in that odd slow motion that engulfed everyone but her, the wheels still turning as they left the tracks, the cars beginning a slide sideways.

  Directly into the path of the people and cars on the street beyond.

  NO.

  She heard the voice, a booming echo, inside her head, but she figured it was her own voice pounding loudly at the looming horror.

  Finally the waiting commuters noticed, their heads coming up slowly, so slowly, and the cars on Beacon Street honking slowly in a weird Doppler effect. A strobe light started, flicking on and off. She made it to what she hoped was safety across Washington Street and down the road to a recessed business door. Time and reality flickered in and out, and Fiona alternately felt like she was in the middle of the scene and physically somewhere else entirely. Her body shifted, and there was a ticking sound as the scene swam into focus and out again. The scene was misty, but she wasn’t sure if that was the air or a trick of her eyes.

  People tried to run, but they were too late. The cars plowed into the commuters, who were trying to run on legs that seemed to be set in concrete. The trolley scattered bodies, and body parts, as it continued to slide. It ran into cars, sending twisted pieces of ruined vehicles into the storefronts beyond, shattering windows and sending large chunks of concrete flying. A windshield spun off a pickup and shattered in front of the spinning car, pieces of safety glass becoming projectile weapons as they flew. They pierced the hapless people, and slow motion blood arched in the air as bodies began falling to the ground.

  Closer and closer the collapsed train slid, but Fiona didn’t move. The scattered remains of the people lay beyond the wreckage, the cars stopped and horns honking, an eerie strung out sound in slowed time. A strange calm descended behind the sliding train, where nothing moved. The mist, she could see it was a mist, covered the entire tableau, but she could hear the ineffective brakes continue to squeal, growing louder.

  All noise stopped. She couldn’t see more than two inches in front of her, so thoroughly had the fog
covered the area. It was impossible to tell if she was the only person still moving in real time–or if anything else was moving. Her heart pounding so hard she thought she might have a heart attack, Fiona realized she was drenched in cold, foul smelling sweat. The stench of true, unadulterated fear, she decided. Her hammering heart and racing pulse told her she was still alive, and apparently untouched by the carnage that lay only feet away.

  The lack of sound was eerie, as if she existed in a bubble, or a vacuum. Although she could hardly hear anything besides the pounding of her heart and the rushing of blood to her ears, she didn’t think it was normal to hear absolutely nothing. Shouldn’t there be people yelling? People who observed the wreck as she did, from a distance? Or even, morbid as it sounded, spinning hubcaps or some sort of fallout from the car wrecks? There must be survivors. Shouldn’t there be crying? Moaning? Something?

  Her legs were rubbery, but Fiona forced herself to take a step forward. Then stopped. She couldn’t do it. Fear swamped her, and she froze in place, unable to move forwards or backwards, unable to cope with what lay in the fog.

  To her relief, she heard voices, voices that seemed very far away. Not voices like the one before; human voices like her own. They didn’t seem to grow louder, instead, they stayed the same, neither decreasing nor increasing in intensity. Although she told her body to move, Fiona found herself rooted to the spot she now stood in. As she watched, she could see weak beams of light pierce the fog in a crisscrossing pattern, and then vanish.

  “Move,” she told herself, “go find help.” Flashes of dismembered, bloody bodies held her in place, her mind telling her what lay in the thick fog.

  The fog. Boston, more particularly, Brookline, was a foggy city at times, but this fog seemed too thick and dense to have come from the sea or the sky, and it came out of nowhere. A Stephen King novelette about things in the fog darted through her brain, and Fiona choked on an involuntary sob.

  It was time to move. The fog seemed a bit less dense, and Fiona eased out from the doorway, hands in front of her. She could still hear the peculiarly even sounds in the distance, seeming miles away instead of feet in front of her.

  “Hello?” she called, inching forward, prepared to check for life signs if she stumbled across a body.

  The cessation of sound and light was as shocking as it had been the first time. It was as if a vacuum had sucked everything out of the area when she spoke, leaving nothing but fog and herself in its wake.

  Nonetheless, she called again. “Hello?”

  The reply, if that is what it was, was not reassuring. “What the hell!”

  Abruptly the fog vanished, leaving Fiona blinking and disoriented. The brightness blinded her for a few seconds and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for what she’d see when she opened them.

  When she did, Fiona sucked in a breath, her stomach roiling. It was impossible. It should have been impossible.

  Chapter 2

  There should be twisted metal and broken bodies everywhere, but the street was completely clean. Of everything. Bodies, cars, trolley, all that remained was the street and rails…and five strangely dressed people. Fiona’s eyes moved around the people before going to the large male who separated from the pack and strode towards her.

  Her eyes widened.

  “You!” she exclaimed.

  It was his turn to blink, and then she saw the same look in his eyes she knew was in hers.

  “You!’ he repeated back.

  She’d never met him, before but he’d lived in her dreams every week since she was fifteen years old. Tall, around 6’3”, broad shouldered and dark haired, he had been her nighttime companion on a regular enough basis that all other boys paled in comparison. He’d kissed her, held her, whispered in her ear as he took her, telling her of love and things that hadn’t existed in her life up until that point.

  One look at him told her that the reality was better than any dream. He was hewn from granite, solid and hard, his straight posture and severe haircut speaking of some sort of military background. His hair was short, and spiky, the kind of dark brown that would go nicely gray when it was his time. His features were regular, with a slight bend to his nose that spoke of a fight of some sort. He looked like it would be hard to get the drop on him in any situation.

  Just like it had been in her dreams.

  Fiona shook her head. This was ridiculous, cataloging a man, even one who lived in her dreams, when such a strange mystery lay before her.

  “Where is…everybody?” Wincing at how stupid that sounded, Fiona fanned her arms out towards Beacon Street, a street that should be a horror.

  He didn’t follow her outstretched arms, merely kept his arms folded and looked at her, his eyes narrowing until she paled further.

  “Sonder,” another identically dressed man, this one shorter, said, stepping next to the familiar, yet unfamiliar, man. “This is impossible.”

  It was all impossible. The trolley wouldn’t have been inescapable if people had seen it. The fog shouldn’t have come in and out that fast. There should be mayhem and destruction everywhere. And what was her dream man doing coming to life?

  There was a logical explanation. She was crazy. Or dreaming. Dreaming would explain it. Her dream man only appeared in dreams, so this was a dream. A messed up dream, with all the blood, but it made sense. Only in dreams did such weird juxtapositions of events happen. She’d had more than a few bizarre dreams in her life.

  “I’m dreaming,” she said out loud, meeting the piercing brown of–Sonder?’s–eyes. “There’s no way the trolley and everything could be gone. And there’s no way time slowed down and stopped like that, so I’m dreaming. That’s all there is to it.” She shut her eyes, willing herself to wake up. This was like that stage of pre-sleep when you’re caught between wakefulness and dreaming, and you’re trying to get up but you can’t move. There was a silence so deep she had to peek from behind her closed lids to see if she had woken up in her bed. Please.

  Unfortunately, no. The remaining people had all stopped working as well, and were watching the trio, their expressions uniformly grim.

  Her semi-shut lids didn’t keep out the chuckle, if such a low, menacing sound could be called that.

  “It would be better if it were a dream.”

  Her eyes flew open at the undertone of anger in his words, and she noticed, irrelevantly, that the bright sun made the dark burgundy of their one-piece suits glow. If it were another, less solidly built group of people, the one-piece might make them look effeminate, or a throwback to bad 1960s science fiction shows. But, on this group, the suits looked right.

  For the first time since the fog lifted, she realized that nobody was on the streets except them. It was rush hour and, despite the accident, there should have been cars and people everywhere. The trendy businesses on Washington Square would be opening, and employees should have been there getting the stores ready. The T should be running every five minutes, and the intersection of Beacon and Washington should have been choked with cars.

  “A dream,” she muttered, but that hope was fading as the man she assumed to be Sonder continued to be real…and the pit of fear in her stomach grew bigger.

  He shook his head.

  “No dream. Cold hard reality. I’m Sonder, Miss…” The trailed off question demanded her name.

  “Fiona.” She would have stuck out her hand, but the fierce look in his eyes stopped her. For the first time, she looked at the sandy-haired shorter man, who grinned a little, tilting his body back away from her.

  Then she laughed, a sound almost as grim as his. “Reality? This is reality? A trolley jumps the tracks and nobody sees it until it’s way too late? Time slows down to a crawl? This reality didn’t look like anything I am familiar with. People and cars and blood should be everywhere, but there isn’t a trace? Strange people in Star Trek style stupid jumpsuits and me are the only ones on a busy rush hour street? I don’t know what kind of reality you live in, Sonder, but it’s way different
than mine.”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes, it is.”

  Chapter 3

  A third person, a woman, short and compact, now strode towards them. Her gait conveyed a no-nonsense “don’t mess with me” attitude, and Fiona found herself not wanting the woman to come any closer.

  “Captain Sonder, this is completely unacceptable.” Her eyes flicked to Fiona and away, making it clear Fiona was the “this” in the sentence.

  “Major,” he acknowledged with a short nod, the nod falling short of obedient by a small margin. “Unacceptable it may be, but reality is also standing in front of us.”

  Whether she was unacceptable or reality, her fear was beginning to burn off, a cold fury replacing it.

  As they were standing there facing each other, Fiona could see out of the corner of her eye that the rest of the people were using small gadgets and seemed to be testing the area, if the beeps and lights were any indication. The shorter man who had spoken to Sonder a moment ago also still stood there a short distance away.

  Without further words, the woman looked at Sonder and then pointed a finger to the sky and then the surroundings, making a circle with the digit.

  Sonder looked up and, after a moment, nodded.

  Fiona couldn’t help but look up, too, not understanding anything. The sky was blue, vibrantly blue, and almost sapphire in its color. It wasn’t a color she’d ever seen but didn’t seem that unusual.…

  And then she looked around and decided she understood what the woman was saying, without words.

  Everything was brilliantly colored, in jewel tones that practically glittered in the pouring sunshine. The trolley rails were the color of freshly polished silver, the asphalt a deep, rich black/grey, the storefront banners standing out in glittering relief.

  She shaded her eyes to look at the sun, but besides the fact that it was also glittering, it didn’t seem different enough to account for the changes. It was still yellow and pulsing slightly–still the same familiar orb that inhabited the sky.