Rewinder

by Battles, Brett

  I widen the opening and slip out.

  I hoped to find an empty hall, but to the left are several people walking in both directions. Some are wearing white like the nurse who’s been helping me, while others are dressed in clothing that again looks odd to me. To the right, the hall is less occupied, but about fifty feet down is an open area with a counter where several nurses sit.

  I decide my best bet is to go left, away from where the nurses are gathered. I don my jacket and pull my satchel over my shoulder as I move into the hallway. I feel the urge to run but resist it and turn down the first intersection I reach. Now that there are more walls between me and the room I was in, I feel a bit better, but I know I’m not out of trouble yet.

  Ahead I hear a bell, followed by a whooshing sound. The hall soon widens to accommodate a row of metal doors. One is open, revealing a small room where several people are standing.

  A lift, I realize.

  The door starts to shut, but a hand juts out from inside and stops it.

  “You going down?” the man whose hand it is asks me.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say as I dart into the compartment.

  “Lobby or somewhere else?” The man’s outstretched finger is hovering near a panel with numbered buttons on it.

  “Lobby,” I say.

  The lift is larger than any I’ve ever been on, and could hold at least twenty people. At the moment, there are only four others beside myself—the man who held the door, a young couple, and a female nurse. The nurse is the one who worries me most, but she doesn’t seem to have any interest in me. The other three, however, do.

  “Nice getup,” the male half of the couple says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is it Fashion Week already?” the woman asks.

  “Fashion Week?” I ask, then realize her question was triggered by my clothes.

  “No. I bet you’re an actor, right?”

  “Right. An actor.”

  “You’re in a play?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which one?”

  I’m backed into a corner. Theater is a subject I have paid little attention to. It wasn’t an extravagance my family could afford. But I do know a few titles. “As You Like It.”

  The woman cocks her head. “Shakespeare? Which theater?”

  I’m saved from answering by the ding of the bell and the doors opening. I start to step off but the man by the panel says, “Not the lobby yet, buddy.”

  I move back in and press against the wall as several more people enter the lift, separating me from the inquisitive couple. One of those closest to me takes a long look at my clothes but says nothing.

  Thankfully, the rest of the journey is made in silence. When the doors open again, I wait until I see the light in the L button turn off before I join the other passengers filing out.

  Following signs marked EXIT, I pass through a door into a large room with dozens of chairs, most of which are occupied. At the far end of the room are several glass doors. Through them, I see fading daylight. Before I can feel any relief, I notice the police officers who visited me standing off to the side, one of them holding something to his ear that he appears to be talking into. It looks like a com-phone but it’s smaller than any I’ve ever seen.

  I slow my pace so I can hide behind a group headed toward the exit, and arrive outside unseen.

  As I move away from the entrance, I look around. A parking area full of strange vehicles stretches out from the medical facility’s entrance. I’m surprised by how different they are from the carriages I know, but it’s the variety that’s the most shocking. Dozens of different colors and shapes and sizes. Where did they all come from?

  One of the vehicles drives by me, its motor humming in an unfamiliar way. There’s only one person inside, which at first makes me think he must be no lower than a Four, but the vehicle itself is dented and scratched in a way no one of that social standing would be caught in.

  “Either move out of the way or walk,” a man says as he steps around me, his shoulder brushing roughly against my arm.

  I look around and realize he’s not the only one who’s had to alter his course to avoid bumping into me. But before I can step to the edge of the walkway, a voice shouts, “Hey! You!”

  I turn toward it, and see one of the police officers has exited the medical facility and is looking in my direction.

  When we lock eyes, he yells, “Stay where you are!”

  A rush of adrenaline shoots through my body. I ignore his command and sprint in the opposite direction.

  “Hey! Stop!”

  For a few seconds, I weave in and out of the other pedestrians, then it dawns on me that I can make better time if I cut into the street. A horn blares from one of the vehicles and the driver shouts something through his window, but I don’t even look in his direction as I keep running. A few more drivers honk but most don’t seem to care that I’m in the middle of the street.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The police officer again.

  His voice sounds farther away so I chance a look. He, too, is in the street, but he’s older than I am and fatter so he’s already slowing.

  Instead of easing up, I increase my speed. Ahead is an intersection with a traffic-control system that’s both familiar and not. The ones I’m used to are mounted horizontally and the lights are green, orange, and red. The one ahead of me is vertical with red on top, yellow in the middle, and green at the bottom.

  Red still seems to mean stop, though, so when the light turns that color, I cut across the road and continue down the new street. After a block, my breaths start feeling heavy, and my days spent unconscious begin to catch up to me.

  My run becomes a jog, then a walk, and then a shuffle before I finally stop.

  Panting, I glance back. No police.

  I rest my hands on my hips and try to catch my breath. What I’d really like to do is find someplace I can lie down for a while, but I know that’s the effect of the pill and I need to fight it.

  Once my breathing is under control, I take a better look around. Both sides of the street are lined with shops—restaurants with signs that read ITALIAN and DELI and COFFEE and ESPRESSO, something called 7-Eleven, several clothing stores, and others I can’t identify.

  Have I stumbled into an area reserved for the upper castes? I could almost believe that, if not for the makeup of the crowd sharing the walkway with me, not to mention the trio of vagabonds I can see from where I’m standing.

  What the hell is going on here? Where in God’s name am I?

  One of Marie’s lessons forces its way through my growing confusion. We were in Rome, somewhere in the 1700s, surrounded by so much history that I couldn’t hide my excitement.

  “It’s easy to get overwhelmed,” she said. “But that’s when mistakes are made. Stay within yourself. Take in everything step by step.”

  Step by step, I tell myself. Get the Chaser, and then figure out what’s going on.

  I close my eyes and concentrate until one thing rises above the others: 244 Rosemary Avenue.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE STORE CALLED 7-Eleven turns out to be a kind of prepackaged food market. The sheer number of items the place carries would be enough to distract me if I don’t force myself to stay on mission and approach the counter where a clerk is finishing up with a customer.

  From the turban he’s wearing and the color of his skin, I guess he is Indian. There are many from the India region of the empire in New Cardiff, too, so this man’s presence is not a distraction to me. But his customer is. Though her skin is lighter than the clerk’s, there’s no question in my mind she’s African. When she speaks, I expect to hear a heavy accent, but the one she has is similar to that of my nurse, Clara.

  The woman must have sensed I’ve been staring because as she leaves, she glances at me and says, “What’s your problem?”

  “I’m sorry. No problem. I didn’t—”

  “Yeah, you’d better be sorry,”
she says as she pushes open the door.

  I take her place at the counter and the clerk says, “Can I help you?”

  “Do you carry maps?”

  “A map of what?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  He turns, pulls something out of a holder on the wall behind him, and sets it on the counter. “With tax, eight ninety-three.”

  I reach to pick it up, but he puts a finger on it, holding it down.

  “Pay first.”

  “I just need to take a quick look at it.”

  “Eight dollars and ninety-three cents or it goes back on the wall.”

  The only money I have is what I was given to use on my mission. Since it’s two hundred years old, I doubt the clerk would honor it. Besides, I don’t know what kind of dollars he’s talking about. In New Cardiff we use the pound, and I’m not sure why they aren’t doing the same here.

  “I’m looking for a street. Rosemary Avenue. Can you just help me with that?”

  “Buy the map, find the street. If not, go. I have other customers.”

  The answer I need is inches away, but it might as well be on the other side of the ocean. “Thank you for your time,” I say and make a quick exit.

  Stepping outside, I have no idea what to do. As I turn left, I see the customer who was inside the store earlier. She’s standing on the sidewalk, pulling disks of food out of a hand-size yellow and white bag.

  She raises both eyebrows and says, “Why do you keep looking at me? Who the hell do you think you are?

  “I’m sorry. I’m not staring,” I say quickly. “I was actually wondering if you could help me.”

  “Huh. Right.”

  She turns and starts walking away.

  “Please, wait. I…I’m looking for a map. You wouldn’t happen to have one I could look at, would you?”

  “And have you run off with my phone? Not going to happen.”

  “I didn’t say anything about a com-phone.”

  She stops and looks back at me. “A what?”

  “I’m trying to find out where Rosemary Avenue is.”

  “You don’t need any map to find Rosemary Avenue.”

  “You can tell me where it is?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but it’ll cost you.”

  My shoulders sag. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Of course you don’t.” She looks me over. “You don’t look homeless.”

  Another new term, but one with a meaning easy enough to figure out. “I’m not.” I reach into my satchel and pull out a Spanish dollar. “You can have this.”

  “What is that? A quarter?”

  I toss it to her.

  “This isn’t American,” she said, turning it in her hand.

  “No. It’s Spanish. An antique. I’m sure it’s worth something.”

  She looks at me, her eyes narrow. “You’re going to give me an antique coin for directions? This is a fake.”

  “It’s not.” I’m tempted to give her another, but think that might reinforce her belief that the coin isn’t real.

  “That’s a pretty nice bag,” she says.

  I drop a hand over my satchel. “I can’t give this to you. I need it.”

  She laughs. “I’m just messing with you. I don’t want your bag, but I’ll keep your stupid coin.”

  __________

  NIGHT HAS FALLEN by the time I reach Rosemary Avenue. I follow the numbers until I arrive at 244. There’s a sign out front that proclaims FOR SALE. Under this is a person’s name and phone number.

  So far I recognize nothing, and wonder if I misheard the address from the policeman. But then again, the only memories I have of the house are from inside, so that’s where I need to check. I sneak around the side of the house to search for a way in where I won’t be noticed, but the windows and back door are locked.

  The thought of slamming it open crosses my mind, but I doubt my weakened body could get the door to budge. Instead, I wrap my jacket around a brick and use that to break a basement window. Once the glass is cleared away, I drop inside.

  The basement is as unfamiliar to me as the outside, so I assume I never made it down here. The stairs take me up into a small hallway on the ground floor. From there, I pass through the kitchen to the room at the front of the house, and suddenly I know I’m in the right place.

  This is the room that flashed through my mind, and I finally feel like everything is going to be okay.

  But as I take the first step toward the fireplace, I hear a voice just outside the front door.

  I look across the room in time to see the knob turn, but the door does not move. Whoever’s outside apparently doesn’t have the key.

  I tiptoe as close as I dare.

  “Told you it was a long shot,” a male voice says. “Face it, we’re never going to see him again. We already wasted enough time searching for him around the hospital. I say we go back to the station.”

  “Stop whining,” a second man says. I recognize this voice immediately. It belongs to the policeman who chased me outside the hospital. The other voice must be his partner’s. “We’re here, so we might as well check around back. Then we can go. Okay?”

  A sigh is followed by a resigned “Fine.”

  I freeze. They’re going to find the broken window and come after me. As I hear them descend the front steps, I whip back around and hurry quietly to the fireplace. Kneeling, I stick a hand up the chimney.

  “Hey, check this out!” The shout comes from the back of the house, and a moment later I hear the crunch of glass as someone lands on the shards in the basement.

  I feel around, searching for my Chaser, until my fingers finally brush against its familiar shape. I hear creaks from the basement stairway, and shoot a sideways glance toward the back of the house as I tease the device off the ledge it’s perched on. When I try to pull it out, it catches on the vent. Panicked, I twist it one way and then the other before it falls free.

  After activating the screen, I see that the date and time are both still set to my previous trip, here, four days before. There’s no time to change both, so I leave the date as is and input the only location I’ve ever memorized. One I thought I would never use.

  “Police! Hands in the air!”

  The two officers are standing in the doorway to the kitchen, each holding a gun pointed in my direction.

  “Hands in the air!” the first one repeats as I disappear.

  __________

  THE MIST OF the trip starts out silent, but right before the end, I get the hint of a companion, only it doesn’t “feel” like Palmer.

  The gray is soon replaced by my good friend—the darkness of three a.m. My headache is considerable for a four-day trip but not debilitating, so I’m able to assess my surroundings right away. The location I used is the cemetery where my mother and sister are buried, nearly three thousand miles to the west of New York, at the eastern edge of the Shallows. I memorized it the first night after receiving my Chaser. But as I look around, I’m not at the cemetery.

  It’s close, though. I can tell from the almost-but-not-quite-right silhouette of the hills. I’m probably no more than a mile away. I write it off as a lack of a companion, but still, I should be closer than this.

  I can see several lamps down the hill from me, lighting up empty streets. Other lights scattered among the hills look like they belong to houses. Though I can’t see any of the buildings well, they appear to be fairly large and would have to belong to a caste well above mine. If such an enclave is located near the cemetery, I don’t recall it.

  Looking east, I can see the glow of New Cardiff rising above the darkened hills. It seems more intense than I remember it.

  I re-input the location of my mother’s grave. Since I’m close now, the jump should be accurate.

  Where I end up, though, is inside a house. I double-check the coordinates. According to my Chaser, I’m within a few feet of where my mother and sister are buried.

  A low growl emanates from a room to my right and a large dog
appears, moving slowly as if stalking its next meal. I shove the recall button and instantly return to the hill.

  The problem must be with my Chaser. Either it’s taking me to incorrect locations or to incorrect times. Maybe both.

  But this is something I can check. I just need to go to a location I know well. Someplace I can use to recalibrate the Chaser.

  Home.

  I need to go home.

  __________

  TAKING A SERIES of small jumps, I head for the house I once shared with my father in the heart of the Shallows.

  Over thirty percent of New Cardiff’s working and tradesman class live in this part of the city. It’s an area of apartment blocks and tiny homes—almost none owned by the people who live in them—where the streets are narrow and the only personal carriages one sees are pieced-together jobs that look as if they may fall apart at any moment.

  I finish my final jump and look around. I’m in a residential area, but the homes are much nicer than those in the neighborhood I grew up in. Because of an abundance of tall trees, I can see no visual landmarks to confirm my location.

  Instead of taking another jump, I decide to walk until my view is no longer obscured.

  As I pass through the neighborhood, I see more of the same kind of strange vehicles I saw in New York. Most have names on the back that I’ve never seen on a carriage before—Honda and LaCrosse and Forrester and Chevrolet and Ford and Caravan.

  I lock away the new information one bit at a time so that it doesn’t overwhelm me and make me lose sight of what I’m doing. But then I reach a wide road that allows me a better view of the area. The hills to the west and north are exactly the same hills I saw from my home every day growing up.

  My Chaser isn’t broken.

  I am in the Shallows.

  I am home.

  The date function, then. Perhaps that’s where the device has failed.