Twists in Time

by Various

  Evie’s heart was pounding as she came closer to her own, painful death. Ahead, a man was digging a hole in the ground. Why is he digging a hole? I thought they were going to burn me, not bury me. He stopped digging and stepped away from it. Through the crowd came men carrying a long, wooden post. They hefted it upright, dropped it into the hole, and filled the area around the post with dirt. And then the wood was brought in—load after load of branches and logs.

  “Please,” Evie begged. “If you let me touch my talisman, I’ll leave and never come back. I promise.”

  “What is the promise of a witch worth?” a soldier asked they pulled her forward. “Move,” he ordered. When she stopped at the pile of limbs, he growled, “Climb.” She turned to find the blade of a sword pointed at her. With care, she stepped from branch to branch, trying her best to avoid the sharp, jagged sticks while the soldiers held her arms in their grasp. Finally, she made it. One of the soldiers backed her against the post and tied her arms behind her back. She tried to move her hands. If only she could touch the button. She found out quickly that she’d never be able to do it. Her wrists were strapped tightly together. The situation was hopeless. Tears began to fall when she realized she was about to die. Yeah, she might have been ready to die to save her parents, but this was different. This situation was completely out of her control. Besides, burning to death sounded excruciatingly painful.

  One of the soldiers made his way down the pile of branches, but the other lingered. Evie wondered what he was waiting for. When the torches were brought out, she began to beg and plead as she sobbed. “Please, don’t do it! I don’t want to die.”

  Then someone was fumbling with the straps at her wrist. She turned to see who it was. It was the soldier who had stayed with her. But this was no soldier. Why didn’t she look closer at him before? The eyes of her prince peered out at her from under a helmet, and he was dressed in a Spanish soldier’s clothing. He meant to rescue her!

  “The red button right?” he asked.

  “Right.”

  “Good luck, lass,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  Once again, she was falling. Thank heavens she didn’t have far to fall before she slammed—this time into the ground. But there were two problems. First, her hands were still tied. Second, and even more importantly, the post transported with her. When she hit the ground, the log tipped over, landing painfully against her back, effectively pinning her to the ground. Wriggling around, she finally got the post to roll off her, pinning her arm. She heard a crack and realized the Ora was beneath the post—probably broken. She took in a deep breath while spots swam in her vision.

  “That was not a pleasant way to travel,” a deep, familiar voice spoke nearby.

  She tried to look around to see the speaker, but she couldn’t accomplish the impossible feat. Finally, the man stepped into her vision. She knew who it was even before seeing him, but seeing his face made her so relieved that she cried.

  He immediately dropped to his knees, untying the binds at her wrist and rolling the post away from her. “Hey, shhh. It is okay. You are safe now.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” she said as she threw her arms around him.

  He returned her embrace and said, “Yes, well, I am glad you are glad, because there are a thousand places I would rather be. I did not expect I would be traveling with you. Where and when are we?”

  Something slammed against her head, and sharp pain radiated over the crown of her head. “Ouch!” she said, rubbing her head. “What in the world was that?”

  He looked up. “Our fall must have loosened an apple from that tree.”

  Sure enough, above them stood an apple tree, loaded with apples.

  “At least we have food,” she said as she looked around. Her eyes widened. Before them was a lush forest, with fruit trees and bushes loaded with berries. “Wow, this looks like an orchard.”

  “Not just an orchard… a garden. Evie, what year is this?” His voice took on a whole new layer of tension.

  She looked at the Ora. Through the cracked screen, a date flashed briefly and then darkened. Her jaw dropped. “I don’t think you want to know.”

  “I can assure you I do want to know.”

  Her stomach churned, and her body trembled. “It’s 4,088…

  “What? Are we in the future, or the past?”

  “B.C.”

  “It can’t be,” he gasped.

  “I know. How could we have traveled back six thousand years? And even worse, I think the Ora is broken.”

  He sat in silence. Evie hoped he wasn’t having some kind of mental breakdown—she herself was on the verge of one. The only thing saving her was denial. Her mind couldn’t wrap around the fact they were stuck so far in the past. Finally, he spoke. “There’s more to it than that,” he said in a low voice.

  She looked up into his eyes—they seemed haunted, yet enlightened. “Evie, I never properly introduced myself.”

  She narrowed her eyes, wondering where he could possibly be going with this.

  “My name is Adam.”

  If you enjoyed The Fall, we recommend you check out Rising by: Holly Kelly.

  Tatton’s loft is as packed as I’ve ever seen it. His usual clientele of dirtbags and thieves has doubled, and the main floor is stuffed with drifters and wayward souls. The smell alone almost drives me out of the room. It’s the putrid odor of sweat and desperation, a smell I know well from my brief stint behind bars.

  Okay, stints.

  On the far wall, near the grungy, orange sofa, is an old-fashioned, red, take-a-number machine. I’d never had to use it before. It’s a testament to the fact that the city is circling the toilet that so many people are here, desperate for what Tatton has to offer. No one looks at me as I make my way to it and pull a paper tab, taking a moment to glance at it before swearing loudly. Fifty-nine. The glowing board is missing a handful of red bulbs, but I can still read the number pretty clearly.

  Nineteen.

  I really don’t have time for this, not today. My bike is out front, covered in an old, green tarp, but it won’t take long before some brave soul gets curious enough to peek under it. They will have it stripped and the parts sold off before I even make it upstairs at this rate. Unconsciously, I rub my wrists. The indentions from the too-tight handcuffs are still molded into my flesh. My arms ache from being bound behind my back for too long, and the side of my face is throbbing. Tomorrow, it will be a bruise the size of a meaty fist, a colorful reminder of last night. Thank God they’d been too busy robbing me to run my fake papers. It had been a close call.

  Too close.

  Scanning the crowd, I notice a small line has formed near the back wall. One man in particular is holding his number tightly under his thumb as he stares at the ticker. He sniffles, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his old, tan trench coat. Shuddering, I decide he’s my target.

  Slowly making my way over, I brush past elderly women, small children with dirt-stained hands, and more than a few large men with grime and wear etched deeply into the lines in their faces. They are all crammed in the abandoned condo, waiting, hoping Tatton and his phony papers will land them in some better place. As if such a thing still existed.

  “…going to New Canada,” one man was saying to another as I passed, “Heard they have jobs there. And the Med Credits are cheaper.”

  “Hey,” I say, cozying up to sniffle guy despite the rancid smell of urine and decay coming off him in waves. “How long have you been waiting?”

  He looks up, glaring at me suspiciously. I smile, blinking slowly. This is the magic of the female species, the ability to make a guy feel completely at ease right before you completely crush him.

  “Five hours or so. But I’m next now.”

  His face is half covered by a leather patch stapled into the skin, with a large, green glass lens over where his eye should be. Angry red lines come from the staples, making me wonder if the patch is a homemade job that got infected. It would explain the smell
, anyway. Judging by the uninjured side of his face, he couldn’t be more than twenty, not much older than me. The telltale signs of working in the steam shafts have marked him, giving him the illusion of age, though he was still just a boy.

  And a boy, I can handle.

  Reaching up, I gently touch the puckered scar ripping its way up his cheek and vanishing under the patch. “What happened?”

  His defenses fall in an instant—I can actually feel the tension slipping out of him as if the air around him is getting thinner.

  “Oh, accident on the rails. You know how it goes.”

  I nod, knowing exactly what he means. Most people desperate enough to work in the abandoned tunnels under the city do so knowing they won’t have long. The steam from the tunnels power most of the city, but at a cost. The only reason people do it is because if you die in the tunnels, your family gets a hefty ration from the mayor’s office. “I do.”

  Leaning forward, I press my chest against his arm. His good eye instantly falls, settling on the tight, blue vest stretching across my breasts. While he’s distracted, I manage to slip the number from his hand, replacing it with mine. One flirty smile, and I turn away, making my way across the room toward the stairs, where a very large guard stands with one beefy hand on the red velvet rope blocking the stairway.

  He glares at me. I hold up my number. “No worries, Brutus. I’m just waiting my turn.”

  He sighs but otherwise doesn’t move. A solid foot taller than me, he is probably as wide as he is tall. Not fat, but the kind of overly muscled that makes it impossible for him to hold his arms at his sides. Rather, he stands there looking like he just might be trying to achieve flight.

  “Wow. You know, you look familiar,” I prattle on. “Didn’t you used to hang out by the bridge and eat goats or something?”

  The burly guard growls, a small drop of spittle forming in the corner of his mouth.

  I gag. Blood doesn’t bother me so much, but spit gets me every time. I shudder. Just then, the light beeps and changes. He straightens himself and calls out, “Twenty.”

  “So you can talk. I was beginning to wonder if I needed torches and pitchforks to get a rise out of you.”

  I hold up the number, and he snatches it, unlocking the rope and letting me pass. Behind me, I hear the poor, scarred boy screaming, “I’m number twenty! Me. That’s my number!” as the guard tries to explain to him that it isn’t his turn yet. By the time I reach the top step, he’s sobbing.

  I don’t look back as I jog up the stairs.

  “Yo, Tatton, my favorite person in the world,” I say, skipping into his office. He stands, moves, around the massive, metal desk, and pulls me into a hug.

  Tatton is the height of heroin chic. Thinner than a starving mine worker and wrapped head to toe in black leather, he just feels slimy. Even his long black hair hangs in greasy waves to his shoulders. Still, I hug him back. I don’t have many friends, and I’m lucky to count him among them.

  “Quinn! My favorite juvenile delinquent. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I shrug. “I need some new papers. ID, sector card, the whole nine yards.”

  He flops down in the old, squeaky roller chair and scoots it forward to his makeshift computer.

  “What happened to the last set I made you?”

  I shrug again. “I got pinched doing a job downtown last night and had to burn them. Just got out of lockup this morning. Came here soon as the tracker was out.” I hold up my arm to show him the bandage from where I’d cut the police tracker from the inside of my elbow. It isn’t large or deep, but it burns like nobody’s business. The gauze is sporting an ugly, brown splotch.

  “Ouch. That’s what, the third time this month?”

  I nod.

  He frowns, bringing his fingers together under his chin.

  “Thing is,” he says and waves his hands. “The heat’s on for those in my profession. It’s risky to keep making new papers for someone who gets picked up as much as you do. They figure out the papers are forged, they come sniffing around my door. Bad for business, you see.”

  From the pouch attached to my leather hip belt, I withdraw a handful of gold and silver chains. He takes them, carefully separating and inspecting them with his monocle before whistling.

  “Not bad.”

  He hits a button on the desk, and the side drawer slides open. He drops the jewelry in the drawer and hits the button again, closing it.

  “Still, no more papers for you.”

  I lean forward, pounding my hand on his desk. “Why not? That was enough metal for three sets at least.”

  He waves at the archaic computer. The skeletal keyboard is a mishmash of old typewriter pieces, and the monitor was part TV screen, part alarm clock. He lifts the cog and gear modem, turning the key to wind the gears.

  “Don’t get your pretty panties in a wad. I have something better for you. A real way out of the system.”

  I sit back. He’s dangled this particular carrot in front of me before; it doesn’t look any tastier this time. “Thanks for the offer, but it’s still a no-go. That tech is outlawed for a reason. The last guy who tried it ended up scattered across three centuries.”

  He stares at the screen and types quickly before the alarm buzzer can go off. “Your choice.”

  I rake my hands through my long black hair, tugging hard. Maybe he’s right. It would make my life a lot simpler. No more running from the cops, no more being hunted down by angry clients—or marks, for that matter. Best of all, no more roundups.

  Downstairs, the boy whose number I’d stolen is still crying and ranting. The sound of it makes my fists curl until my fingernails are cutting into the skin of my palms.

  “Fine. It’s a deal. And can I get a spare set of papers? For a friend?”

  He doesn’t even look up, “That’ll cost you more.”

  Nodding I reach back into my pocket. My fingers curl around the cool cylinder. It was supposed to pay for food this week, but I guess I’ll just have to find some other way.

  “Here. Will this do?” I set the D-cell battery on his desk with a thud.

  That gets his full attention. For a minute, he looks stunned, like it might be some sort of trick. It’s hard to blame him. He probably hasn’t seen one in ages. Slowly, his eyes never leaving the black-and-silver battery, he pulls a small cable from his other desk drawer. Carefully turning it on its side, he touches the wire to each end. A small jolt of power sparks, and Tatton claps, a genuine smile spreading across his face.

  “Oh, Quinn, you bring me the best findings. Where ever did you get this?”

  I sigh, wondering if the vandals have taken my bike apart yet. “Do you really want to know?”

  “No,” he breathes in a whisper.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “Fine. One set of papers for your friend and one address, it is. Is there anything else I can do for my best customer today?”

  “Matter of fact, there is,” I decide, folding my hands on my lap.

  Ten minutes later, I am climbing down the stairs to the waiting area. The boy with the patch had been taken out and is sitting in the hall when I get there.

  “Here,” I say, holding the papers out to him.

  “Why?” he asks, taking them cautiously, as if they might be a venomous spider.

  “I heard someone stole your number. That sucks.”

  He shakes his head. “Thank you.”

  “Whatevs,” I say, offering him a hand up. “But those papers should get you as far as New Canada. And this’ll help, too.” I hold up the wad of Med Credits I’ve just traded my favorite blade for.

  “Take these to the hospital outside the city. I think you might have some kind of infection going on in there.” I point to the patch.

  “Thanks. Um, why are you helping me? Nobody helps anybody here.”

  I just pat his arm and walk back toward the front door, not looking back over my shoulder.

  Stepping outside into the bright sunshine, I pull
the pocket watch from my vest. Nearly four in the afternoon. If I hustle, I can still make it to the market in time for the day’s food discard. It isn’t the best fare, but two-day-old bread and slightly rotted cheese is still better than starvation.

  Slightly.

  The sound of the siren makes me freeze. A motorcar putters in my direction, directly between me and the green tarp hiding my bike. Spinning on my heel, I double back, flying up the stairs to the loft. Flinging the door open, I yell, “Cops outside!”

  There isn’t full-blown panic, but people quickly find exits and make for them, quiet as little mice. Noise would be bad. Noise would bring the police right to us. Tatton’s hired muscle rushes up the stairs, and I hear Tatton packing up his heavy machines.

  Opting for the scenic route, I jog up the back stairs to the roof. Bursting through the heavy, roof-access door, I see I’m not alone. Three others have also had the same dumb idea. Most of these roofs are connected, but of course, this one stands alone. The only access to the next roof is an abandoned cable running between them. Two of the others dash back inside, but I walk to the edge, looking down at the scene below. The cops aren’t alone.

  A half-dozen private security goons in white suits have joined them. Mayor Ravesdale’s personal army.

  “Oh, this is bad,” the boy next to me mumbles.

  “How did they find me?” I ask myself, shaking my head. I look over, and my breath hitches in my chest, choking me.

  “You?” The boy looks at me, confusion filling his blue eyes.

  I stumble back from the edge, away from the familiar face.

  “Why would they be here for you?” he repeats, stepping towards me.

  I hold up my hands, “What? No. That’s not what I said. I said, ‘how did they find… glee.’ I mean, don’t they look just a little too happy to be here?”

  He shakes his head, making his brown hair fall into his eyes before brushing it back with one hand. “No, you said me. I heard it.”