by Rysa Walker
Only it was Kate who looked my way when the faint ping of glass against glass echoed in the silent dark. Kate who paused as she moved toward the exit. Kate who gasped, and thus guided Holmes’s gun to where she was standing.
On the plus side, he didn’t have to bother with the acid. I also didn’t have to listen to his comment about how Kate’s kick wasn’t half bad for a girl, but still no match for a gun.
On the very negative side, Kate was looking straight at me when Holmes’s bullet hit, right above her left eye.
I shudder and take another swig. The whiskey burns on its way down, but the fire doesn’t begin to wipe that image from my mind.
The only way to fix this is to go back and stop myself before I take that jump. To splinter myself and hand off the torch to Past-Me. And maybe it’s the whiskey, but I find that idea doesn’t bother me so much anymore. I’m beyond caring whether it’s this me or some other version that goes forward as long as Kate does.
I tuck the flask back in my jacket and pull out my CHRONOS key. It’s 20:24. I roll the display back to 20:05 and jump back to the stable point inside the cabin.
It’s just a single room, with a small fire crackling in the fireplace. Between the light of the fire and the two lanterns there’s just enough light to read, and my earlier self is huddled over my notes. On the ground next to him is the bag of medicines I swiped from a pharmacy in the late 2030s—some pain medication and a hydrogel that’s supposed to reduce burn scars, along with gauze, medical tape, and other items that I wouldn’t have much luck finding in the local apothecary in 1893. In a perfect world, I’d get Kate out unharmed. But it’s a far from perfect world and I know I need to be prepared.
“You botched it,” Past-Me says, when he sees me standing in the middle of the room. There’s not even a hint of a question in his voice. The fact that I’m standing here pretty much confirms his accusation as fact. “And here comes my double memory. Thanks.”
I give him a sympathetic look, because I’ve been in his shoes. The good thing about being the one who creates the splinter is that the double memory isn’t quite as strong, but I still don’t like looking at him. It’s like my brain is stuck on one of those hamster wheels… running in circles, but not really going anywhere.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry about that. That distraction you’re planning right now causes Holmes to veer toward the center of the room. Must’ve thought it was a rat or somethin’. He’s lookin’ when Kate steps into the light from the window. Shoots her square in the head.”
He rolls the time back on his CHRONOS key and watches the display. A few seconds later, he curses, and shoves the stack of notes to the floor.
“Got any other ideas?” he asks. “Because that was my last one, and now I’ve probably only got another nine minutes or so before I’m history.”
His voice is bitter on this last part, and I realize I’ve become much more philosophical on the whole splintering thing in the past half hour. Or maybe I’m just tired. Him, me. Doesn’t much matter which one vanishes as long as one of us is still here to help Kate.
“I jumped back twenty minutes. So I’m probably the splinter. And no, I don’t have another idea yet, but at least we’ve got two brains to… ap… ply…”
“What?” he asks, waiting for me to go on.
“I don’t know, just… maybe we’ve been going about this all wrong? Been tryin’ so hard to avoid the double memories, to avoid becomin’ a splinter, that we’ve missed the best chance to get Kate out of that hell hole. I don’t know if you’re the splinter or if I am, but one thing’s for sure. For the next few minutes, there are two of us.”
“So? The place is already crowded from all the times we blinked in and out of there earlier. I’m not sure how both of us going in at once is going to help matters. The other one… the one with the four on his head. Didn’t he say that interacting like this was a bad idea?”
“He did. But like you said, we’re running short on ideas. Bad ones seem to be all we have left. I’ll jump into the stable point close to the cots. You jump into the hallway. You can monitor through the key and jump in as backup if I fail. Or if I… disappear. And if, by some miracle, Kate makes it into the hallway, you help her jump out.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tackle the son of a bitch. Slow him down.”
Past-Me drags one finger through the soot at the base of the fire and then walks toward me. He stretches out his hand when he reaches me and draws something on my forehead.
It’s not a four.
“It’s a five. That way if I have to come in, I can sort you out from any other Kiernans in the room.”
I don’t wipe it away. Instead, I swipe my finger through the ashes and draw a six just above his nose. He doesn’t appear to like the new label any more than I do.
The clock is ticking for one of us, so I pull up the stable point near the cots on my key. I set it to 20:25:30, a few seconds earlier than before so that I can, hopefully, get my bearings before the action starts.
Unfortunately, the display shows nothing but the dim white fabric of my shirt. One of my earlier selves is loitering inside the stable point and I can’t jump in until he moves. So I wait. He has to know this stable point might need to be used again. Idiot.
After about three seconds, Earlier-Me finally moves to the other side of the room. I give it another second, then blink in.
World’s Fair Hotel
10281893_20:25:30
I hold the air in my lungs as long as possible, and then pull in shallow, hesitant breaths, steeling myself against the pervasive smell of smoke and rot that fills the room. As I move away from the wall, something crooked and gnarled that looks a bit like a tree branch, catches against the side of my jeans. I hold the CHRONOS key down to investigate and realize that one bony finger has snagged the edge of the denim.
The sight causes me to startle. My two other selves turn and look directly at me, even though we’re doing our damnedest to avoid contact and the duplicate memories that follow. I feel two new memories worming into my head, a memory of looking over and thinking what an idiot, and another, from a slightly more recent self, of thinking, oh, it’s the idiot again. These memories almost, but not completely, overwrite the earlier one, when no idiot stood on this side of the cot.
I inch toward the center of the narrow room, away from the skeletal hand and its long-dead owner. Then I crouch down, doing my best to keep my breaths small and silent, and tuck my CHRONOS medallion into the leather pouch around my neck. Holmes may not be able to see the light from the key, but Kate can, and my last attempt proved exactly how much damage I could cause by distracting her.
A few yards in front of me, two shadows—one adult and one child, both dimly lit in green by their CHRONOS keys—shuffle toward the window and the ladder. Even though I’ve watched this over and over during the past few days, it’s still strange to see my eight-year-old self creeping along that wall next to Katherine. It’s not like a double memory, but more like when Simon drags me along to watch some movie he likes for a second time. A third shadow, which belongs to Kate, works its way carefully toward the linen closet that leads back into the hotel.
Somewhere between Kate and the linen closet is Holmes. That part of the room is too dark to see clearly. I can hear him, though. He moves cautiously, but with a speed that shows how much more familiar he is with the layout of this abominable room than the rest of us.
Two shots ring out, in fairly rapid succession, followed by the crash of breaking glass. Like the stench, these noises have become routine, things that I hear and smell each time I’m here.
A third shot sounds as Katherine shoves the window open. Even though I can’t hear or see it from this distance, I know that Katherine and my younger self are currently having a brief, nearly silent squabble over who goes through the window first. I’d promised Kate that I’d get her grandmother back to safety, and I took that promise seriously. On the other hand, I was used to getting my
bottom whacked if I argued with my elders. And since Katherine’s expression suggested she might just toss me out the window if I didn’t go willingly, I didn’t hesitate long before following her orders.
The next few seconds would be the best time, strategically speaking, for me to attack Holmes. But I know that Katherine is still there, crouched below the window. It was several seconds before she followed me onto the ladder, and I remember hesitating, wondering if I should go back up and help her.
Watching the scenes over and over in the past few days, I know now that she could probably see Holmes at this point, faintly lit by the glow of Kate’s CHRONOS key. He’s staring at the window, pistol raised, ready to take another shot. And she’s waiting for something to distract him before making her move.
Kate provides that distraction, kicking out and upward as Holmes passes in front of her. Another shot echoes in the room as he stumbles.
I’m still in a crouch, and for a moment, I think I’ve bumped into one of the bits of furniture in the room. Something pushes me backward, and it’s only when my ass lands on the floor that I realize the last bullet hit me.
Not in the shoulder like the one that hit Number Four. This bullet hit at least a foot lower, on the left side of my abdomen.
Kiernan Number Six should be at his station in the hallway by now, monitoring this room. But he’ll be watching Kate and Holmes, so I doubt he even realizes I’ve been shot.
Holmes manages to grab Kate’s foot, and she falls backward, banging her head hard enough that I feel the vibration through the floor.
I wait until Holmes starts talking and then try to get to my feet. Wetness seeps through my fingers and I have to pause to steady myself as the pain ratchets up.
“You have an impressive kick for such a little lady,” Holmes says, as he digs for the spare bullet in his jacket pocket. “But it’s no match for a gun.”
As he begins chambering the round, Katherine drops out the window, disappearing onto the fire escape.
My second attempt at standing fares no better than the first and I decide that staying close to the ground might be a wiser bet. I begin crawling toward Holmes, one arm pressed against the wound in my side.
Kate is still recovering from the fall and she looks around, disoriented, as Holmes steps backward, trying to figure out exactly where she landed. The back of his leg bumps against one of the cots, causing the collection of bottles to clang against each other.
He curses, and then abruptly shifts to a laugh. He’s just remembered the bottle of acid in his pocket.
Across the room, Kate has the key in her hand and is working on locking in a stable point. I lunge forward to grab Holmes’s legs, hoping to trip him before he gets the stopper out of the bottle.
I don’t remember crying out, but some noise must have escaped me because Kate looks away from the key toward me, losing her chance to blink out.
She screams as the acid hits the side of her neck.
I’ve heard that scream before, too. Five times now. But it pierces me, nonetheless. That sound could never become routine, even if I was locked in this cycle for eternity
Holmes takes a step back, maybe to avoid any splash-back from the liquid. As soon as he’s in range, I hook one arm around his legs and tug. The gun flies out of his hands, landing just a few inches behind Kate who is frantically crawling toward the door to the linen closet. His foot lashes out, connecting with my stomach. It’s not directly where the bullet entered, but close enough that hurts like hell. For a few seconds, I’m helpless, curled into an agonized ball.
As Holmes hunts for the gun, I push myself back toward the cots. The bony arm is still there, inches from me as I tug my CHRONOS key out of the pouch, but it doesn’t bother me the same way now that I see Kate approaching the door.
In my dreams, I think that hand has always been Kate’s hand, representing my fear that she had become just another anonymous corpse in this makeshift morgue.
Holmes scrambles around on the floor and eventually locates the gun. He looks around for me, trying to determine why he tripped, but his attention is pulled back to Kate when she shoves aside the body that’s blocking the exit.
For the first time since I began watching this horror show, Kate opens the door, and that jolts Holmes out of his momentary stupor. I need to stall him, keep him from following her.
I toss one of the bottles toward him. “Come get me, you son of a bitch.”
Holmes jumps and looks behind him, waving the gun in the direction of my voice.
“What are you waiting for?” I speak louder this time, since Kate is out of the room.
Does he think I’m a ghost? Most of the people he killed were women, but a few men lost their lives at his hand, too, including a few business partners. Maybe he’s expecting his own personal Jacob Marley to crawl from the shadows. He hesitates, but he only has the one bullet left and, in the end, it’s Kate he decides to pursue.
The CHRONOS key now reads 20:25:43. Nine seconds longer than Kate’s lived in any scenario. But she’s not out of harm’s way yet. I need to find my other self, my unwounded self, so that he can help her. I don’t know how badly injured she is from the acid or from the blow to her head when she fell. Is she even in a state where she can use the key?
That thought is oddly prophetic, because it takes me two tries to pull up the stable point near the stairwell, where Kiernan Number Six is positioned.
I roll the time back to 20:24:00 and blink in at the hallway location. At first, I don’t see Six. It takes me a few seconds to realize that this is before the time he was supposed to jump in. And I’m blocking the stable point he’ll be using.
Idiot.
Once I drag myself a few feet to the right, Six blinks in. When he sees me, color drains from his face, almost as if he’s the one who’s in danger of bleeding out.
“What happened?”
“I seem to have caught a bullet.”
He glances down at the blood for a second, and then he pulls out his key. “I’ll go back and—”
“No.” I stop to catch my breath. “Kate gets out. She’ll be coming this way in about forty seconds. She’s injured, but she’ll be okay unless Holmes catches up to her. He still has one bullet.”
“Okay, then. Get back to the cabin. I’ll take it from here.”
“I don’t think I can get back to the cabin. It took me two tries to blink back to this spot. Just leave me. Help Kate.”
He gives me a doubtful look. And even though I wish he’d go and quit wasting time, I get it. I remember feeling the same way back in my room, and that version of me wasn’t in nearly as bad shape.
“Damn it, just go. Get her to safety.”
Six blinks away and returns a second later, holding a wet cloth that smells a bit like baking soda. Gauze pads and a roll of medical tape are tucked under his left arm. He hooks his right arm under my shoulders and pulls me to my feet.
“I said, leave me.”
“This isn’t about you, damn it.”
Six half drags me to a door across the hall and after a brief struggle with the knob, he manages to open it. I lean against the wall, and he pulls the door closed behind us, then tosses me the wet cloth and other medical supplies.
“I’ve set up points along the hallways and watched what’s happening. She’ll come this way. I’m going to distract Holmes and see if I can buy her a little more time, hopefully without getting myself killed. Kate will try this door, but it sticks, so she’ll think it’s locked. Open it, transfer the stable point to her key.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes as he speaks. At first, I think he’s avoiding the whole hamster-on-a-wheel feeling, but there’s something else in his expression. Getting the medical supplies, setting all those stable points, watching them to see which way Kate would run… all of that took time. This hotel is a maze of hallways, and even if he was just watching the most likely routes, it took more than a couple of minutes.
So I ask him outright, before he can blink away.
“It’s been almost nine minutes for me. How long has it been for you? Since I caused the splinter?”
“Not sure.”
Yeah, right. The truth is written on his face—my face—and I’m not so far gone that I can’t read it. And even if there’s a touch of bitterness, and more than a touch of fear about what’s coming down the pike very, very soon, I know it’s better this way.
“It’s okay. No point in lyin’ to yourself. I’ll get her to the cabin. You take it from there.”
He does look at me then, and gives me a quick nod.
A split second after he leaves, the door handle rattles twice, followed by a frustrated curse. I’d recognize that voice anywhere, even strained as it is now from pain, from breathing smoke, and from running through these hallways seconds ahead of a madman.
Crossing the short distance to the door is agony, but I make it. I twist the handle sharply to the right, and as Kate falls backward against me, I place one hand over her mouth to trap the scream that I know is coming. With the other hand, I press the wet cloth against the angry welts on the side of her face.
My knees are shaking harder now that her weight is added to my own. I lean back against the wall, struggling to stay upright, as I close the door and push the bolt into place. That lock won’t hold Holmes for long—one good kick will probably do it. It’s flimsy and barely screwed into the wood, unlike the sturdy locks he’s placed on the outside of these doors. Holmes isn’t nearly as concerned with keeping people out of these guestrooms as he is with keeping his guests trapped inside.
Kate struggles against me. I whisper her name softly, as I press my face against her hair, breathing her in. The stench of this place, full of smoke and death, clings to her, but her own scent is there, too, and it fills me with a sense of relief that I haven’t felt since I lost her.
