by LK Walker
A knitted rug has been draped over my legs, no doubt to keep away the drafts that are coming through the gaps between every board in the shed’s construction. It’s a small kindness that’s out of place in an abduction. Even with the rug there, I feel covered in goosebumps.
I try to stand but my feet have been tied too, one to each leg of the chair I sit on.
I’m bound, I’m cold and I am petrified. I lose any composure I had and start tugging and yanking my arms and legs every way possible to try to free them. Pain comes in sharp bites with each movement.
I don't know how long I spend fighting the ropes. It feels like hours. All it does is make the skin around my wrists and ankles painfully raw. I give up struggling and lay my head back against the wooden bracing beam behind me. I've run out of good ideas and start screaming as loudly as possible. If my capturer comes to shut me up, at least I my might gather a few insights into why the hell I’m here. But the screaming is hopeless. I give up when my throat feels as raw as my wrists. No one has come. I’m alone in this shed.
Coby told me it would be a week before they would re-establish contact. That’s a couple of days away but it might be less. I have no idea how long I’ve been out to it. I need to let them know what’s happening to me. They are my last hope. I close my eyes, never so happy to be exhausted. I drift into that haze that comes just before sleep, even though I’m more uncomfortable than I can ever remember being.
*****
The sun is peeking into the shed when I rouse again. I was alone in my sleep, no dreams disturbed me. Nothing is left for me to do but sit and wait, trying not to let my dread get the better of me.
It’s a few hours before the side door to the shed opens and the sick man walks in.
“You woke up early this morning,” he says to me with a smile. “Thankfully, the neighbors are miles away, otherwise you might have woken them too.”
“What do you want?” I don't wish to play any stupid power games with him. My mind has already run through possible explanations of why he has taken me. Unfortunately, there is no pleasant scenario which begins with a strange man kidnapping me, tying me to a chair in a drafty barn and leaving me there overnight.
“This should be all over soon. I know your lodgings are not comfortable, but please try to relax,” he says with a kind voice. Since he’s the one who trussed me up, his speech is patronizing.
“What are your intentions?” I try to sound calm, although I’m far from it.
“Making money. Cara, you are going to make me very wealthy.”
“You're after a ransom? Who do you think I am? I don't know anyone who has money to pay for me.”
“Not ransom, no.” The smile on his face is like a child’s in a playground. It makes me feel uncomfortable, to say the least.
“Then how?” I ask.
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you. You'd think I was crazy.”
“I hate to tell you this, buddy, but I don't think kidnapping a stranger is the act of a sane man.”
“Tell me Cara, what would you do for one hundred and sixteen million dollars?” He picks up an old crate from next to the door and sets it on its end as a make-shift seat. He’s placed it a few yards away from me. Evidently, even tied up, he won't risk being too close.
“Who would pay that much for me? I'm nobody.”
A look of consideration crosses his face. “Do you know, I'm not sure I ever asked. Some government agency, I’m not certain which. They said you were a risk to the state and your capture was of national importance. Or something along those lines. When they said I would get a hundred and sixteen mill for my help, I don't remember much after that.”
“And you believe that they’re going to pay you millions of dollars for kidnapping a girl?”
“Not pay me, no one would pay that much. No, they’re going to rig the lottery. I’ll be a winner. They said, that way no one will question why I received the money.”
All I can do is scoff. “You really think they can do that?”
“I didn't believe them at first, so they proved it to me. They gave me the numbers to choose in last week’s lottery. They said I would win $40,356.10. They were that precise. And I did, to the exact cent. That’s when I started believing.” He's talking to me like I’m his friend. His excitement grows with each word out of his mouth.
“What do you mean, believing?”
“This is when you're going to think I'm losing my sanity.” I don't bother to tell him I already think he’s well gone. This is not normal behavior.
“They can talk straight into my head. I've never met them in person. But I see them in my head.”
I might not describe it the way he has, but I’m certain he is hearing voices from the future. Any other option would be too much of a coincidence. The others, whoever they are in the future, the ones that I’ll be fighting against—they must have found a way back here too. I shouldn’t be so surprised.
All I can do is stare.
The man's complexion is looking better than it did when he abducted me. The gray clammy skin has disappeared and is now a pale pink complexion with a smattering of red veins high on his cheeks. I wouldn't describe him as sick at all now. His eyes are large and focused as they stare back at me.
“You don't believe me, do you, that they talk straight into my head?” It sounds ridiculous as it comes out of his mouth. He sounds delusional. That’s why I’ve never told anyone about this future stuff, not even Jack.
The absurdity of it isn’t what’s troubling me. What’s causing a terrified feeling to bubble up out of my stomach is that my enemies have sent this man to take me hostage and I have no clue who ‘they’ might be.
The man is twisting in his seat waiting for me to say something.
“Do they talk to you in your dreams?” I ask.
He looks at me as if I have disappointed him. “I'm not dreaming. It's real. It's when I'm awake.”
Oh God, they have bettered what Zander’s friends have achieved. They can make a connection when the person is awake.
“How long have they been talking to you?”
“Wait. You believe me?” he asks, excitedly.
I don’t tell him either way, just give him a non-committal shrug.
It’s enough for him to divulge more. “The first time was two weeks back. Last weekend I bought the winning lotto ticket. They told me not to spend any of the money until this is all over.” He makes a face like a naughty school boy.
“You haven’t done as you’re told, have you?”
“I didn't own a vehicle,” he says. “I’ve always dreamed of having a brand new one.”
“So, you bought a fancy car and you shoved me in its trunk.”
“Sorry ‘bout that, I didn't intend on being so rough. I hadn’t considered you’d walk up to me on the street. I’d planned to do it nicely, neatly, so you didn't get hurt.”
“And these ropes aren't doing that?” I tug at my hands so they bang against the wooden beam.
“When I planned it in my head, I thought you’d be frightened of me and do what I said. You really put up a fight.”
“Apologies for disappointing you, mister.”
“It's Tony. Call me Tony. Anyway, I thought it would be safer if you were restrained.”
“Safer for who.” I give him a scalding look “What did they tell you to do with me?” I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
“They said to take you out of town. Somewhere nobody could find us and then sit tight for further instructions.”
“And where are we, exactly? I didn't have a window on the trip here. Or consciousness for that matter.”
He grins foolishly, ignoring the resentment in my jibe. “We made it over the state line to Montana. Took less than twelve hours in the new wheels. It’s an awesome machine - got automatic everything.”
“Why didn't you have a car before, since you love them so much?”
“I'm not supposed to drive. I have epilepsy. That's what brought me t
o Seattle in the first place. I was involved in a drug trial. It’s amazing stuff. I haven't had a seizure since starting the medication.” Tony's face furrows and for the first time since I’ve seen him, he looks angry.
“Are you okay?” I'm not sure why I ask. Sometimes compassion is automatic, I guess, even when it is towards the man holding me hostage.
“It works perfectly and they pulled the trial early anyway.”
“Why?”
“'Cause some ignoramus probably took it with something he shouldn't have and died.”
“But you’re still on the medication?”
He picks up a nine-inch nail from the floor and starts to twiddle it between his fingers. “When they told me the trial was canceled, I went and swiped as much of the drug as I could.”
“Why would you do that? It could kill you.”
“I need it.” Tony’s voice is forceful.
“You can't need it that badly.”
“I do.” The twirling nail stills. “If I don't take the pills, I can't talk to the government men, okay. And before you say it, I’m not just having a bad trip on medication or anything. That's not one of the side effects.” He’s almost yelling at me.
“I wasn't going to say that.” If I could hold my hands up in a defensive position, I would. Instead, it comes out as a shrug, which makes my shoulders ache even more than they were.
“So, what now? You take the pill and we find out what happens next?” I ask.
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Why the wait?”
“They said they’d contact me tomorrow. I thought it would be wise to be organized in case something went wrong. So, I picked you up early to be sure it all went to plan. I don’t want to miss out on a hundred and sixteen million because I didn’t time it right.”
“You can't leave me tied up like this for another day. It's bloody painful.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat at the thought of it, grimacing as my shoulders pivot.
Tony lobs the nail on to the work bench and it rolls into the head of the hammer, letting out a delicate chime. “Don’t worry, Cara, this will all be over soon.”
That's what I'm afraid of.
Chapter 27
Sitting in one place with your hands tied behind you is a serious punishment. My arms are passed feeling like they might drop off and have moved on to an excruciating kind of numb. My backside isn’t much better. I can lift myself up a little from the chair to rest it, but it’s like doing squats. It doesn’t take long in this position before my thighs scream in agony. I dump myself back on the hard seat only to get a stab of pain as the bones make contact.
Tony hasn’t shown his face in the shed since this morning and, from what I can tell, it’s now late afternoon. The beam behind me is a poor excuse for a pillow. Since it’s my only option, I lean back against it and close my eyes. I haven’t given up on Zander yet.
“Valkyrie entry.” A quizzical voice says off to my right somewhere.
I can hear the beat of feet on vinyl flooring. I open my eyes as Zander jogs up to the head of the bed.
“Cara? You’re early. We weren’t expecting you to come through until tonight.”
The room has changed. There is a desk and white melamine shelving on the far wall. Best guess, the room is, or was an office. Two hospital beds sit side by side, mine and the one occupied by a tall blonde man. The man’s eyes are closed and his body is still. I half expect him to sit up and talk.
“It’s JT,” Zander tells me. “Well, it will be tonight. We weren’t expecting you for a few hours yet. We only just started setting your connection up in preparation.” I look further around the room. Peche and Coby are both here, in front of what passes as a computer these days. Oddly, I can see through the edge of Peche’s screen to a dirty old white board on the wall behind her. Coby has a flustered vibe. His usually tidy hair looks frazzled. Peche catches my eye and gives me a wave and a smile.
“My arms still hurt. Why can I still feel them?” It’s strange to be able to move them around in front of me, but the pain reminds me that I’m bound.
“I can fix that.” Coby turns to play on his computer. “Give me a couple of sec’s. Your pain sensors are still linked to your home body. And—there we go.” He strikes a button. It’s the best painkiller I’ve ever had. Within a split second, all the discomfort is gone, the throbbing, the aching, I can’t feel a thing.
“Thank you. That is unbelievably good.”
“What did you do to your arms?” Zander asks.
“They are currently tied behind my back.” That makes everyone in the room stop and look at me. “A man kidnapped me from outside work. I’ve been stuck in a shed for at least one night, maybe more. My hands are tied behind my back and my legs are tied to the excessively hard chair I’m forced to sit on.” I finally lose it. I’m crying, but no tears streak my face.
My hand wipes my cheek in case they’re there, but I can't feel them.
“You're not hooked up correctly. Your tears will only work as an automatic function to clear debris from your eyes. Your brain needs to be wired properly for them to be an emotional response.” The relief of having no pain in my shoulders is short lived. I now feel like an alien in a body that I am borrowing from a dead woman.
“Then get me hooked up. At this point, I don't know where I would rather be.” I’m practically screaming at them.
Peche stops what she’s doing and helps Coby with the computer I’m attached to. It's not long before a shock registers in my brain, followed closely by the prickle of tears. To feel them run down my face is freeing and shamelessly I let them run. Zander holds me tight, stroking my back, until they dry up.
“Connection is complete and stable,” Coby speaks quietly. Zander's body gently bobs beside me and I can only assume he’s nodding in response.
Rationality falls back into line and I’m embarrassed by my outburst. As soon as my head comes off Zander's shoulder, I’m offered tissues to clean myself up.
“I'm sorry,” I murmur, firstly to Zander, then I turn to Peche and Coby and say it louder so they can hear me. They both offer me genuine smiles.
“No worries, aye,” Peche says giving me a wink. “To make up for it, you could tell us what’s going on?”
I explain how Tony grabbed me outside of work and trussed me up in a shed in the middle of nowhere. As soon as I’m finished Zander looks at Coby with very stern eyes. “Check it.”
Coby's left eye looks as if a slither of smoke swirls within it, quickly growing, turning his eyeball black.
Zander places his hands gently on my arms and turns me to face him. “Are you okay?”
“Other than sore, I'm alright.”
“Nothing,” Coby calls to Zander.
“Do we have an anomaly?” Zander asks.
A few minutes’ pass before Coby answers. “I can’t tell if there’s a divergence in the timeline. There’s nothing to suggest it.”
“What does that mean?” I interrupt their conversation.
“We have no idea what a significant change in the past would do or whether we’d even know it had happened. In case it’s possible to identify, we’re scouting for anything that might suggest the past is being rewritten. We thought it might be trackable if past events start to differ from what we know. We’re looking for anything—like our quantum computer throwing up inconsistencies as it attempts to rectify an anomaly, any suggestion of an anomaly in the closed time-like curve. We might catch a whiff of it—that’s assuming casual consistency isn’t relevant.”
“What?” I know Coby is trying to dumb it down for me, still—I’m not sure what he’s saying.
“If they are changing the past and creating a new history, it could be perceived by our computers as an irregularity. The assumption is, we would already be living the change, but the computer may be able to detect the variation. So, say, with an abduction that hadn’t historically occurred but there were now historic media reports from that period, the computer may detect a change.�
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“And can you see an inconsistency?” I ask, hoping I’ve understood what he’s on about. “This is definitely people from your time screwing with my past”
He shrugs. “I can’t tell one way or the other. What I can say for sure is that your abduction never made the newspapers. It never came up in our research into your past. It’s safe to assume what is happening to you now, wasn’t part of your original timeline, but if it is a change, it also hasn’t affected the future.”
“What my friend is trying to say, in his own special way is—we have no way of knowing what the outcome will be,” Peche says.
“You mean you don’t know whether I’m going to live? Great. That makes me feel better.” I have access to the future, which should be as good as a crystal ball, and even here I can't have reassurance I'm safe.
“We don’t know if the past is changing,” Coby adds in. He's shaking his head as if he can't believe it himself.
Zander stands up, his attention moves to Coby. “They found a way to go back. I thought you said that would be near impossible,” he accuses him.
Zander runs a hand through his hair. He’s frustrated, the word may as well be painted on his face and he’s taking it out on Coby.
“Near impossible means there’s still a chance,” Coby replies.
Zander's face flashes with anger. He looks like he’s about to charge Coby and take a swing. I grab the front of Zander’s shirt and his focus returns to me. He's still agitated, but expels the air in his lungs, letting his shoulders relax a little.
None of this is helping. I’m trying to think of any salient piece of information from the shed that might be useful, or at least diffuse the tension.
“The man who took me, he’s being contacted outside of sleep.” I tell them about the drug trial. Immediately the smoke swirls in Coby's left eye.
