by Dylan Jones
He hadn't seen anything that spooked him after the old man had retired. A fox had caught him almost napping, but the dog had woken up the whole damned country with that little visit. Jack had tied the mutt to a post after that.
The hut's door squeaked open and the boy came running out barefoot. He fastened his britches as he ran, a big grin wedged on his face. Like a kid on Christmas morning.
“How does she find you this morning son?” Jack put on his sternest voice.
The boy frowned playfully, but fell into the part naturally enough. “Fine and dandy so she does. Mister, did you kill all the injuns that snook up on us?”
Jack stifled a chuckle. “Well son, I guess the last hundred or so got scared after I buried the first hundred, so'n they decided to hot-foot it over that hill instead.”
The boy looked mesmerised and tried his hardest to spot the last of the fictional Indians fleeing over the ridge.
The old man clattered a tin cup with his spoon outside the shack, and both Jack and the boy understood the timeless signal that breakfast was being served. The dog seemed to know it too, and he whimpered and whined on his hind legs to show it. Jack shooed the boy on and smiled to himself as he watched the kid dart through the long grass. That boy could run like a hare. Jack untied the dog, which thanked him by trying to chew off his boot.
“Go on! Get!” he swiped his hat at the dog, which bounced out of the way easily enough and contented himself instead with alternating bounces and orbits around Jack's legs, all the way to the house.
Jack ducked inside and was surprised at how much like home this modest dwelling already felt. Maybe all houses did, when the warm welcome inside promised such protection from the cold.
The old guy had laid out an ugly but wonderful smelling feast. Jack saw the remnants of the cooking pot still burning in the corner. The old man clanged a bowl down each for the three of them. “This ought to keep you warmed up sir, but mind how she chews. Maybe one or two of them pellets still busy killin' these rabbits.” And with that he folded almost double and went into silent spasms. Jack's heart bumped up into his chest, but the old guy sat up again with tears streaming down his face and he snickered uncontrollably. Jack let out a quick breath. Damned fool was just laughing at his own jokes again.
The boy grinned a toothless grin at Jack. “You can sit here next to me. I usually save this seat for Barkuss, but he doesn't really need it. He's a dog.”
Jack looked to the old man who nodded approval. Jack pushed the ever-eager dog's nose out of the way and squeezed onto his assigned seat. It was a block of dried wood of some kind, polished only by years of mealtimes. The old man set about tearing big hunks of rabbit for everyone. It seemed there was also plenty of gristle and bone to keep the dog out of their way. It scarpered off to a corner with what looked like a leg, where he splayed out on the sawdust and tore quietly at it, tail wagging into overdrive. Jack couldn't recall ever feeling as content. Which in itself was enough to snap him straight out of it. He had a long cold road ahead of him, and could afford little time with life's little luxuries.
“I have to leave today.” Jack's statement lingered in the silence. Only the sound of bones scraping tin bowls followed it. The old man's chewing slowly turned to nodding. He raised his head and looked at Jack directly.
“That's right sir. That you do. From here we'll guide you through the woods. Show you a little something, then you'll be on your way. Heavier of heart, but heavier of wisdom. Heavier of stomach too, Lord willing.” He gave Jack a little wink. The boy only stared down at his food, his mouth an angry line. Jack decided it best to leave the boy be, and steered the conversation elsewhere. Something still gnawed at him.
“I still can't recall where we met. Before yesterday that is.” Jack thought how best to ask the next question. Decided on the direct method. “It hasn't happened for me yet has it?”
The old man stopped chewing. The boy looked up at Jack, puzzled. The old man glanced at the boy. Looked back at Jack. The early morning sun dipped behind a cloud and in that split second gloom the old man looked many years older.
“Boy, why don't you take the dog outside and tie him up. I reckon he needs to watch over this old place when we get going.”
“But he always comes with us. Always.”
“Not today son. Today's the day we talked about.”
The boy's eyes went wide. “Holy shit on horse-back!” Then clamped both hands over his mouth. The old man smiled gently.
“Get to it son. Me and Jack here's got some talking to do, and we could do without little ears listening. We'll fill you in soon enough.”
Jack admired the man's parenting. He was firm but honest. And it had paid off in spades. Jack could see the boy had nothing but respect for the old man. The boy hopped off his seat and tore out of the shack, the dog bouncing at his heels. Then there was nothing but the crackle of embers beneath the cooking pot. The old man tore the meat off his second helping and chewed. A line of fat escaped his mouth and he wiped the back of his hand across his chin. He smiled at Jack.
“How long you been chasing him?”
Jack raised an eyebrow. He absent-mindedly scratched his beard. He couldn't recall when he'd last used a razor. He waited for the old man to finish chewing.
“This Devil of yours. How long? Has it been a year yet?”
Jack studied the old man. There was some things you just didn't speak of. No matter how friendly the conversation.
“As I said, I have to leave. For your safety as much as mine.” Jack stood up and stiffened his hat before putting it on. The old man nodded quietly. Seemed to ponder something in his head. Weighed up his options. When at last he spoke, the friendly drawl had vanished. His trembling hands clenched instead into steady fists on the table. His eyes seemed almost young again.
“That boy and I are one.” He paused, sat back in his chair. “I've met you before because that boy has. That boy will grow up sooner than any boy should have to. He'll see things, do things no man alive should ever have to do. He'll do them all in your name Jack. For you. And he'd do them all again without a single regret.” A tear trickled down the old man's cheek.
Jack sat down again slowly as he realised what the old man was saying. The old man coughed, perhaps to rid a tremble in his voice. “When I was a young boy, many years ago, a stranger came calling on our farm. He was butt naked and almost dying of thirst. My old man came out and showed the stranger some hospitality. Seemed he knew him from someplace. In the short time before things got crazy, I came to learn that the stranger was a good man. Better than good. He was pure of heart. I hadn't seen that stranger for many many years Jack. Until yesterday.”
“Does the boy know?” Jack was surprised to hear his own voice.
“That he'll grow up to be his own foster father?” The old man chuckled. “What do you think?” He scratched the table top with a thumbnail, far away in his own thoughts.
“When will it happen for him? How?” Jack tried to run through scenarios that would allow such a catastrophe.
“That's for you to find out old friend. You have to live your life as I do mine and the boy does his. No one gets to see the future. You know that.”
Jack thought about the implications. How far back did the loop go? Would he be the cause of it?
“But I could stop it. The boy could live his life. You wouldn't need to do this. He wouldn't need to do this. Jesus, this thing could go on ...”
“Forever?” The old man smiled. “Maybe it already has Jack. I always wanted to live forever. Just maybe not like this.” His face grew dark and he massaged his shoulder. “Damned cold's setting in. We'd best make a move if we're to get you going.” He made a show of getting up and clamped a solid hand on Jack's shoulder. “It's worth it you know. What you're doing. Never forget that.” he looked Jack directly in the eyes. “You're not doing it for yourself anymore.” He gave Jack's shoulder a squeeze, offered a crooked smile and brushed past. Jack was surprised to hear him whistle on his
way out. The creaking door clapped against the frame as he left.
4
The Ox held his hat against the raging winds and knelt at the opening of a cave. Rudimentary efforts had gone into sweeping away a handful of footprints. Inside the cave, dust had recently been disturbed by a human sized inhabitant. The Ox placed his hand on a darker patch of sand and smelled his fingers. Ammonia. Strong urine. Probably severe dehydration. Maybe a day old. Two at most. The Ox got up, wiped his hands and looked around. He saw miles of nothing along the coast. Above him, gulls clamoured and bickered on a grassy cliff top. The Ox placed a foot on the rough outcrop and reached upward for a handhold.
He sensed more than heard the presence somewhere behind him. Without thinking he kicked out with all his strength against the rock and thrust himself toward the weeds on the right, spinning as he crashed into the dune. The arrow's feather clipped his ear, drawing blood in a clean line, before embedding itself into the cliff wall. The Ox used his fists to spring back up and ran toward the point of origin. As he came up out of the weeds he saw four figures coming right at him, natives, all armed to the teeth. The sun reflected off a bow as it was drawn back. The Ox put all he had into the run. Put his head down and powered his legs. He aimed for the big guy up front. Assumed he was the leader. Tried his best to ignore the arrow primed and ready to fire from the guy on the far left. He'd missed once, he could miss again. After that the guy would never miss anything again. The Ox would make sure of it.
He was less than ten yards away when the centre guy screeched. The Ox stopped his legs from moving. Made himself a dead weight and crashed to the floor. The arrow whistled above his head from the side as he smashed into the sand. He used the momentum to roll into a better position then used the inertia to kick himself back up into the run.
They were almost on top of him now, but they were slowing. The dead-fall had surprised them. It had looked like he'd died on his feet. For a second they probably thought the arrow had found its target and they had relaxed, if only for a second or two. It was human nature. Sub-conscious reactions programmed in over thousands of years. No way to bypass it. A second or two was all the Ox needed. He leaped high into the air just before impact. A man of his size and weight had no business leaping anywhere but the nano-cells coursing through his bloodstream gave the Ox access to inner reserves usually only available during extreme adrenalin release.
The big leader had an axe raised above his head and a look of terror in his eyes. The Ox's leap took him directly into the projected arc of the axe's swing. The Ox removed the threat by pile-driving his fist directly into the man's collarbone as he came down. There was a loud crack, and the Ox followed with an elbow to the guy's face, breaking his nose and knocking him out cold.
Another screeched in from the right, thrusting forward with a long javelin. The Ox grabbed the tip, felt a white hot pain as the serrated edge cut deep into the fleshy pad beneath his thumb. He fought an urge to release and clamped harder on the spear. Put his other hand further along the pole and used it as a pivot point. Jerked that arm high and thrust down on the sharp tip. The native was already stretching forward as far as he could. He had no lateral strength. He was already giving everything he had into the forward thrust, nothing into the downward force. The handle end slipped up out of the native's hands and cracked the guy on the chin. The Ox spun the spear around and put the end through the guy's larynx. The Ox ignored the guy reloading the bow. Looked at the one hollering and waving the blades at him. He tore the spear back out of it's owner's throat and wielded it like a baseball bat. Swung it wide and low, sliced the third guy's shins wide open. His jagged blades dropped to the ground and the guy howled like a cut pig. The Ox put him out of his misery with a boot to the groin and a sharp knee to the chin. At least he could sleep as he bled out.
The man with the bow had at last managed to find and load a third arrow and with trembling hands aimed it at the Ox. Dammit. Too far away for any kind of close combat.
The Ox re-evaluated his position, and threw the spear down. Spread his arms wide and looked the American directly in the eyes. Spoke to him firmly but quietly.
“Niye takpah tokahe. Mak U takuon takuwe.” You attacked first. Give me a reason why.
The American's expression wavered, but he doubled the tension in the bow and aimed it directly at the Ox's large chest.
“Wakin sni takuon wanasa pi wa maka ska.” Need no reason to hunt animal.
The Ox's hand throbbed. Droplets of blood spattered onto the sand below. He licked a single bead of dark black blood from his finger tip.
“Sni wa maka ska. Wakatanka.” I'm not an animal. To you, I am a god.
The coppery taste of his own blood exploded in his mouth, and the Ox dissolved out of existence. His clothes fell to the floor in a heap. The Native American cried out in surprise and stepped back. He stepped forward and prodded the clothes with his bow. A few moments passed. The Indian whirled around in all directions. The Ox man was nowhere. He stepped back another step. Behind him the air shifted and grew warm. The Ox's naked ghost shimmered into a solid entity. His eyes empty, his face a mask of pain. He seemed a little older. His features drawn and haggard, his hair touched with flecks of white. He fell to the floor with an in-human scream. The American whirled around in terror. Emptied his bladder and ran faster than he had ever run before. The Ox arched his back in spasm and howled at the sun with pain and fury. His screams echoed against the cliffs, and only the crashing of waves answered his mournful cries.
On the far side of the beach, high on a cliff top, a young American Indian girl on horseback looked down upon the beach. She had watched as the white man vanished like a spirit and re-formed into a howling banshee. The men he had slain had not been of her tribe but they were her neighbours. They were strong men. Warriors. The white ghost had made fools of them and defeated the last one with magic. She would report back to the Grey Wolf. She had finally found what he had spoken of since he arrived many years ago. She had found the Buffalo God. Grey Wolf would be pleased with her news. She clicked her tongue and turned the horse around. She willed the horse to go as fast as it could. They had a lot of ground to cover before nightfall.
5
Jack stood in the doorway and pumped his fist in a clenching motion. A trickle of dark red blood dripped from the tiny incision he'd made on his forearm into a small canteen. He saw the old man and the boy fussing over the dog in the distance. They'd tied it to the usual post, an ever-faithful guardian of their property. It made Jack uneasy that they were spending so long with it.
Jack shook the canteen, heard the sloshing of liquid at the bottom. Enough for an emergency at least. He resisted the temptation to suck his wound clean and plugged the canteen shut. He strapped it to his belt along with the makeshift knife he'd been given by the old man. He pitched his hat forward and rolled down his sleeve. The blood was already congealing and the cut would be camouflaged by the dark sleeve even if it bled a while longer. He took one final look at the wooden dwelling and made his way toward his new travelling companions.
“All set?” The old man's eyes were clenched shut against the bright sunlight. He ruffled the dog's head one last time and whispered something in it's ear. The dog licked it's master's face and the old man wiped away a tear. He cleared his throat and walked away briskly. The boy shrugged at Jack and hugged the dog goodbye.
“See you later Barkuss.” The dog had already lost interest and was chasing a fat bee around the pole. The boy chuckled and grabbed Jack's hand. They walked on after the old man, who was already at the far end of the field, striding ahead with purpose.
“How far are we going mister?” The boy's nose was crinkled and his eyes blinked against the sun as he craned his neck up toward Jack.
“As far as it takes son.”
The boy thought about this for a moment. “You're not from around here are you?”
Jack looked down at the boy as they walked. “Anyone ever tell you you're a real smart kid?” The boy just
shrugged his shoulders.
“How fast can you run?” Jack pointed at the old man in the distance. “Want to see if you can outrun an old horse like me?”
The boy grinned, and took off, laughing all the way. Jack smiled and looked back at the farm. The dog was nothing but a dot in the distance. Far behind it, over the mountains, dark clouds rolled in. Jack pulled his coat tighter and turned his collar up. Up ahead, the boy had caught up to the old man and was clinging to him. They walked on together, away from the coming storm. And Jack followed.
6
President Ben Freeman strapped himself into one of two open and illuminated pods. He closed the larger glass hatch, leaving only the service tray open so he could speak to the General.
“Christ Jim, let's go. 60 seconds and counting. Get the hell in there.”
The General flicked a final switch and closed the control panel he was working on. Instead of moving forward he stepped back and away from the time pods. “I'm sorry Ben. I had no choice.”
The President took a second to realise what was going on. He touched his palm to the door release mechanism. The door remained closed. An electronic voice spoke over the speaker system. “Unauthorized personnel. Please begin double clearance procedure to exit pod.” The President looked directly below him for the manual pod release. He tore the safety straps off and yanked on the yellow and black lever. Again, nothing. No way out.
“Unauthorized personnel. Please begin double clearance procedure to activate pod.”
The President's mind raced through what he knew of the security system's details. He kept an eye on the General as he did so. His old friend was backtracking slowly away toward the barricaded exit.
