Somewhere in Time

by Richard Matheson

  I looked straight ahead of me as I ran, afraid to glance back. There was nothing in sight to run toward—no house, no sign of life. I began to curve a little to the left, hoping to move in a wide semicircle so my dash would finally be directed toward the hotel. I thought I heard their running footsteps behind me but wasn’t sure. Still no shot. Momentary hope burst deep inside me.

  Smothered instantly as something crashed against my legs from behind and I went pitching forward in the sand. Twisting around, I saw Jack looming overhead. With a muffled curse, he took a swing at me and I threw up my left arm to block the punch. I gasped in pain as his fist struck my arm; it felt like rock. A few blows from him and I’d be bloody and unconscious.

  Then the older man was on him and before Jack had a chance to take another swing, he was yanked to his feet and flung aside. My relief was short-lived as Al bent over me and grabbed my coat. Abruptly, I was on my feet before him, seeing his arm draw back. I tried to deflect his blow but the power of it knocked my arm aside, the hard flat of his palm smashing against my cheek, driving streaks of blinding pain through my eye and jaw. “Now that’s enough,” he said. He shook me as an adult would a child, his strength incredible. “One more move like that and we will kill you.”

  He jarred me down and turned to check the forward rush of Jack, holding him as easily as he had me. “Let me at him!” Jack demanded fiercely. “Let me at him, Al!” I stood, half-blinded, watching, as the older man held his partner at bay, calming him. “Easy does it, boy,” he said. “Slow down your blood.”

  They weren’t going to kill me then. The knowledge, at first a relief, now only made things worse. If I had known, I could have waited for a better opportunity to break away from them. After this, they wouldn’t give me such a chance again.

  It was not until the older man got angry and told Jack he was in charge and Jack had better remember it that the younger man stopped struggling. Moments later, they had me by the arms again, moving me along the beach. Jack’s fingers dug unmercifully at me now but I didn’t mention it. Teeth clenched, I asked the older man what he was going to do with me.

  “Kill you,” Jack spoke first. “Deader than a mackerel.”

  “No, Jack,” Al said, almost wearily. “I am not a man to commit murder and you know it.”

  “What are you going to do then?” I asked.

  “Keep you from returning to the hotel,” Al informed me. “Until the train has left.”

  “Is that what Robinson told you to do?”

  “I believe that was the gentleman’s name.” Al nodded. “And you can thank him for your life. He was double-clear that you were not to be harmed, merely kept from the hotel a number of hours.” He clucked disgustedly. “And we would not have harmed you either if you hadn’t kept resisting us. But that is being young, I guess. My Paul was similar.”

  He said no more and I wondered why Robinson had been so scrupulous regarding my life when he’d seemed to desire nothing more than its abrupt conclusion. Had I, again, misjudged him? I frowned away the thought. What did it matter anyway? Losing Elise was no less than losing my life. True, I’d read that she’d remained at the hotel, but how could I rest my life on that? Did it make any sense that she’d remain alone when all her company was gone? Make any sense that her mother and, especially, Robinson would leave her there? Would Robinson have gone to all this trouble only to leave her behind?

  Further, my abrupt disappearance could only make her think that I had gone as I had come—mysteriously, inexplicably. The notion that Robinson had had me abducted could not possibly occur to her. She would leave with her company. No other course was logical. Leaving me with one course: to earn enough money to follow her to New York City, a course which loomed as insurmountable. What kind of job could I get which would not require months to earn cross-country train fare? Months in which Elise could change her mind about me. Not to mention the ever-present feeling (almost a conviction now) that my hold on 1896 would be, for some time, limited to the hotel and its close environs. If I feared to lose hold with the hotel still in sight, how could I dare travel thousands of miles from it? Which left what? Writing to her? Hoping she’d return. Robinson would be alert to any letters coming in. She would never see mine.

  I started as the older man said, “There it is,” and, focusing my eyes, saw ahead the low, dark outline of a shed. “Here is your home for the next few hours, Collier,” Al told me.

  “And forever,” Jack said quietly. I looked at him in shock.

  “What was that?” asked Al.

  Jack said nothing and I swallowed dryly. “He intends to kill me,” I said.

  “No one’s going to kill you,” Al replied.

  Jack has the gun though, I thought. What if his desire to murder me were so intense he’d kill Al too to gratify it? Falling out among thieves, I thought. Again ridiculously melodramatic, again chillingly real.

  We had reached the shed now and the door was creaking loudly as Al pulled it open, shoving me inside. I staggered, caught my balance, wincing at the flare of pain in my left eye. It was pitch-black in the shed. For a moment, I considered reaching around hurriedly on the floor for something to hit them with. But there was still that pistol in Jack’s pocket and I hesitated. A moment later, a match was being struck, the flame casting a flickering glint over their faces: those of men who had lived rough lives and been irreparably hardened by them.

  I watched as Al took a candle from his pocket and lit the wick, pushing the candle into the dirt floor until it stood by itself. The flame grew long and yellow, increasing the illumination, and I looked around. No windows, only cracked wood walls.

  “All right, tie him up,” Al told his partner.

  “Why bother?” Jack objected. “A bullet in his brain would save us the trouble.”

  “Jack, do what I say,” Al told him. “You are going to make me lose my temper soon.”

  Hissing with disgust, Jack moved to a corner of the shed and, bending over, picked up a coil of dirty rope. As he turned toward me I knew, with a rush of dread, that the final moment had arrived. If I failed to get away now, I would never see Elise again. The knowledge made me stiffen and, with desperate strength, clench and drive my fist as hard as I could into Jack’s face. With a startled cry, he flailed back clumsily against the wall. I whirled to see reaction just beginning on the older man’s face. I knew I had no chance to knock him down and, lunging to the side, dove against the door and burst it open. Falling outside, I rolled once and started surging to my feet.

  Then I felt the grip of Al’s big hand on my coattail and was yanked back into the shed and flung to the ground; I cried out as my left arm twisted underneath my body. “You will not learn, will you, Collier?” he said, infuriated.

  “Goddamn him, he’s a dead man now.” I heard the rasping voice of Jack behind me and twisted around to see him standing dizzily, hand reaching into his pocket.

  “Wait outside,” Al told him.

  “He’s a dead man, Al.” Jack pulled the pistol from his pocket and extended his arm to fire at me. I stared at him, no thoughts and no reactions, paralyzed.

  I never saw Al move. The first thing I was conscious of was Jack being struck on the side of his head and knocked to the ground, the pistol flying. Al picked it up and shoved it into his pocket, then bent over Jack, grabbed him by the collar and the belt, carried him to the doorway, and heaved him outside like a sack of potatoes. “Try to come inside again and you will be the one with a bullet in the brain!” he shouted.

  He turned back, breathing hard, and stared at me. “You are hard to take, young man,” he said. “Damned hard to take.”

  I swallowed, watching him, afraid to make a sound. His breathing slowed, then, with a brusque move, he snatched up the coil of rope and shook it loose. Kneeling, he began to loop it around my body, his expression stonelike. “I suggest you make no further move,” he said. “You have just come paper-close to dying. I suggest you come no closer.”

  I remained immobile,
silent, as he tied me, trying not to wince as he pulled the rope taut. I would not make any further moves. Neither would I make any further pleas for freedom. I would take what came now and be still about it.

  Abruptly, unexpectedly, he chuckled, making me start. For a mad instant, I thought: My God, it was all a joke, he’s going to let me go. But he only said, “I like your spunk, boy. You’re a bully lad. Jack is a strong man and you nearly stretched him cold.” He chuckled again. “The look of wonder on his face is something I will treasure.” Reaching out, he mussed my hair. “You remind me of my Paul. He had spunk too, bushels of it. Took a good twelve savages before he went down, that I’ll wager. Damned Apaches.”

  I stared at him as he finished tying the ropes. A son killed by Apaches? I could not absorb the knowledge; it was too foreign to me. All I knew was that I was alive because of him and he would not release me whatever I asked. I would have to hope that I could untie myself quickly after he was gone.

  He made a final, rock-hard knot and stood with a groan, looking at me. “Well, Collier,” he said, “we part company now.” He reached around for something in his rear trouser pocket, had trouble getting it. I stared at him, my heartbeat quickening. A wave of coldness gripped me as he drew the object out. There’d be no breaking loose from bonds, no returning before the train left.

  He walked behind me. “Since I do not choose to sit here watching for the next few hours,” he said, “I will have to give you sleep.”

  “Don’t,” I murmured. I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen a blackjack in my life. It was an ugly, frightening weapon.

  “No help for it, boy,” he told me. “Just don’t move now. If you sit still, I can knock you in the right place. If you struggle, I could accidentally crack your skull.”

  I closed my eyes and waited. Elise, I thought. For an instant, I had the impression of seeing her face, those haunted eyes staring at me. Then a burst of pain exploded in my head and I dropped into blackness.

  The return of consciousness was a gradual collection of pains: a throbbing ache in the back of my head, soreness in my stomach muscles, stiffness in my arms and legs, a numbing chill throughout my body. Finally, my eyes opened and I stared into the darkness, trying to remember where I was. I could feel the tightness of the ropes around my legs as well as my arms and trunk; so I was still in 1896, had to be. What time was it, though?

  I tried to sit up. To no avail; I was trussed so rigidly that a deep breath hurt my chest. I kept looking ahead, blinking my eyes. Gradually, the darkness receded and I saw some faint illumination through cracks in the wall. It was definitely 1896 then; I was bound in the shed. I tried to move my legs, wincing at how tautly they were bound together, their circulation almost gone.

  “Come on,” I said. Ordering myself to think, to do. If I could just get on my feet, I could hop to the door and knock it open, maybe find somebody on the beach to help. I strained to lift my back from the floor, realizing, then, how cold it was beneath me. My suit must be a mess, I thought. The meaningless notion irritated me as I struggled to sit up.

  I fell back with a thud, crying out weakly at the flare of pain in the back of my head. Had Al cracked my skull despite my sitting motionless? It felt like it. I had to close my eyes for a long time before the pain would subside. I became aware of the smell of the shed’s interior, a smell composed of rotting wood and damp, cold dirt. The smell of the grave, I thought. Pain expanded in my head again. Relax. I closed my eyes. Was the train gone yet? I wondered. Elise might delay its departure a while on the chance that I’d return; that was possible. I had to get free.

  I opened my eyes and looked around, trying to get my bearings. I thought I saw the outline of the door and, bracing myself against the renewed swell of pain, started moving toward it. I visualized myself twisting and wriggling across the floor; the vision was ridiculous but not amusing. Fish out of the water, I thought. I was that in every respect in those moments.

  I had to stop, my breathing so strained by then that every inhalation hurt my chest, causing waves of blackness to pulse through my head. Relax, relax, I thought; it was more a plea than an order now. I tried to control my breathing, tried to tell myself it was a long play, four acts long; that it would take a long time to strike the set and load the cars; that, even beyond that point, Elise could keep them from leaving. It was possible. I had to believe it. There was no—

  I caught my breath and lay unmoving as, for several moments—was it five, six, more?—I felt the same sensation I’d had lying on the bed in Room 527, just before I’d traveled back in time: a sensation of drifting toward limbo, of being in no place at all but in transition. God, no, I thought; please, no. Like a child cowering in the darkness, praying for some formless dread to pass, I lay there, teetering on an edge between times.

  Then it was over, I was in the shed again, squarely fixed in 1896. There is no way to describe it any better. It is something felt more in the flesh than in the mind; a visceral awareness of location. I waited to make sure it held, then started twisting toward the door again. This time, I kept on going even when the inability of my chest to expand made it feel as though my breath were backing up, swelling the tissues of my throat and gagging me.

  By the time I reached the door, my chest was filled with shooting pains. A heart attack, the thought came; that had to be what it felt like. I tried to smile away the notion; grimaced, I’m sure. That’s all I need, I was thinking. I slumped my head against the door, waiting for the pain to fade. Gradually, it did, and the pulsing in my head diminished. Now, I thought. I hitched up my shoulders as high as possible and fell against the door.

  It didn’t budge.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned. Had they locked it? I stared at the door in disbelief. I could be in the shed for days. I shuddered convulsively. Dear God, I could die of thirst. The idea filled me with dread. This can’t be happening. It was a nightmare, I’d wake up soon. Even as I thought it, I knew, perfectly well, that I was wide-awake.

  It took some while for me to collect my senses; some while for the dread to ease enough for me to think. Slowly, I worked myself around, teeth gritted, turning my body until the bottoms of my boots were pressed against the door. I rested several moments, then abruptly bent my legs as much as possible and kicked the door.

  A groan of relief escaped me as, on the third kick, the door flew open with a cracking sound. I lay there, gasping, smiling in spite of the pain inside my head. There was a moon; its pale light covered me. I looked down at my body. Rope around my chest and arms, around my legs from thigh to ankle. He’d really done a job on me.

  Slowly then, I inched my way outside, moving like a giant worm, it struck me. As I did, I saw that the door had been held shut by a wooden latch which I had shattered with my kick. If it had been a lock, I thought. I thrust aside the idea. Don’t waste time on useless fears, I told myself. There were enough real ones to cope with. I looked at myself again. The only place I could begin was near my right hand. Straining, I managed to reach a knot; it was like a small stone. Picking at it feebly—which was all I could do—accomplished nothing. I wondered why my right hand ached so until I remembered hitting Jack with it.

  I picked at the knot with endless ineffectiveness. Suddenly, I stopped, a combination of enraged frustration and anguish filling me. “Help!” I shouted. My voice sounded strained and hoarse. “Help!” I listened for an answering cry. There was nothing but the distant boom of surf. I shouted again; shouted till my throat hurt. It was useless. There was no one anywhere around. I had to get loose on my own. I twisted around and tried to see the hotel but it was not in view. Elise, don’t leave, I thought. Wait for me, please wait for me.

  For a few moments, I thought I was slipping again, shifting toward that tenuous film between times. I lay immobile until it passed; more quickly this time. Why was it happening? I wondered. Because of the blow on my head, the distance I was from the hotel? Or because of the overall trauma of what had happened to me?

  I was afraid t
o think about it too much lest I bring it on again. I looked at myself carefully, trying to discover a way in which I could release the bonds. Seeing one, I began to strain against the loops around my legs, trying to separate my knees and stretch the rope. By pressing the edges of my boots together, I got better leverage and was able to push my knees more powerfully against the rope. A smile pulled back my lips as I became aware of more room; I could separate my legs now.

  Trying to ignore the pulsing in my head, the jagged pains in my chest, I kept working at the rope until I was able to raise the tip of my right boot and hook it over the bottom strand. I pushed down with my foot; the boot tip slipped off. Doggedly, I tried again; this time I felt a shifting of the ropes around my legs.

  I don’t know how long it took but, gradually, I worked the bindings down until they were a clump around my ankles. I tried to pull my right boot through the opening but couldn’t. Straining (my efforts must have loosened up the chest loops too, because it hurt less now to breathe), I was able to push the left boot down against the right until it slipped off. I pulled my right foot from the ropes, my left boot. My legs were free!

  The sense of victory shrank quickly as I realized that the second half of my labors would be much more difficult. Trying not to let myself become discouraged, I concentrated on standing. My legs were so numb, it took me more than a minute; the first five times I fell. Then, as the blood began to course again and needles, pins, and pain started, I was able to rise, albeit slowly, waveringly.

  I looked around. Now what? Run back to the hotel, half-bound, half-shod? The idea was grotesque. I had to free myself completely. My searching gaze was caught by the base of the shed, stones held together by crumbling mortar. In one place, the wall was set back inches from the base and the mortar edge looked very rough. Moving to it hastily, I fell to my knees and, leaning forward, started to rub the ropes against the edge.