Infinite Time: Time Travel Adventure

by H. J. Lawson

  Infinite Time

  by HJLawson

  ~~~

  Ebook Edition 1

  Copyright © 2016 by HJLawson. All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Please nominated here > www.kindlescout.com and receive your FREE COPY.

  Please note this isn’t a Young Adult book, it’s written for adults.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author's Note

  Chapter 1

  “Parker… come down. Parkerrrr,” mom yells from the bottom of the stairs.

  “What?” I yell back, my eyes fixed on the screen. She’s going to kill me if she carries on shouting at me.

  “Come downstairs,” she yells.

  “No… no,” I yell at the screen as I fire frantically at this game. “No… this game is stupid,” I say, throwing the control down, glad I’m getting the new game tomorrow for my birthday. It's meant to be way better than this one.

  “Parker,” mom screams. Great, she sounds mad. Hope she doesn’t threaten to take my game back.

  “What?” I yell from the top of the stairs.

  “I need some milk from the store; can you catch up with dad?” she asks as I head down the stairs toward her.

  “Can’t you call him?”

  “He left his phone,” she says with his phone in her hand.

  “Do I have to?”

  “Please,” she sighs. Even with the dim light in the hallway I can see the shadows under her eyes. The flower satin bandana only makes her skin look grayer. Guilt seeps in, Mom is always so positive it’s easy to forget how sick she is.

  “Sorry Mom, of course I can,” I say.

  “Thanks, Parker. Grab yourself some candy as well.” She smiles as she ruffles my hair. “You need a haircut before your birthday party next week.

  “And grab your coat, Parker. There's a chill in the air,” mom says, wrapping her nightgown over herself as she stands with the door open, revealing the dark street lit with streetlights.

  “Are you sure I should go by myself?”

  “You are eleven tomorrow, and dad’s just left. I will watch from the step.” I've walked to the store on my own before, but this is the first time at night. I grab my coat and head out onto the street. She's right—there is a chill. I pull my coat together, letting the velcro connect and hold it in place.

  Gentle drops bounce off my head. It's frigging raining.

  I lookback to mom, who, as she said, is on the steps in front of our house with her hands folded.

  She waves me on. I run quicker so I can get back quicker.

  My sneakers pound on the sidewalk. I miss step and land in a puddle.

  Streams of light from car headlights beam along the rain, igniting the drops.

  The light rain begins pouring in earnest at the sight of me running, as if it's trying to drown me. At this rate my feet are going to be soaked.

  “Dad, wait up,” I yell as his shadow turns into the store, but there's no way he can hear me over the hammering rain.

  The sound of a gun going off rips through my ears as if I were standing next to fireworks. I flinch back, away from the sound.

  A man darts out of the store and runs straight toward me, with a gun pointing at me.

  I freeze.

  His eyes flick toward me as he passes me, and he doesn't stop running, as if he's barely seen me.

  I release the breath I was holding.

  “Parker?” mom screams as she runs barefooted down our front step, toward me. “Edward?” she calls out to my dad.

  Dad. I run toward the store. Rain pounds down on my head as my coat flies open.

  Dad staggers out of the store with his hand clutching his chest. Other people from the store gather around him.

  “Dad... Dad, are you okay?”

  “Edward,” mom yells as she gets closer.

  Dad’s legs buckle beneath him, and he falls to the ground before anyone can catch him.

  I run, dropping to my knees beside him.

  “Dad... Dad.”

  The color drains from his face, dripping away with each raindrop.

  “Call for an ambulance,” mom yells as she crumbles to the ground beside me.

  “Angela,” dad says as he opens up his hand for mom’s. His hand is covered in blood. His other hand clutches tightly around a card that shrinks as it becomes more water than card.

  A bloody red stain seeps through his white shirt, just below his heart. The rain doesn’t wash it away quickly enough.

  He will live, he has to.

  “Parker, look after your mom for me,” dad says, passing me the card and resting his hand on top of mine.

  “Look after each other,” he says as his eyes close.

  “Edward.”

  “Dad… Dad!” I scream out, trying not to sob, but as always, tears soak my cheeks, and my bed sheets are wet from sweat.

  I try to compose myself, to remember that it was just a dream—well, a dream that really happened. I look over to the red glowing numbers on my alarm clock. I’ve got just enough time for a shower before class.

  I’ve run through all the different things I could have done to change the past: I could have stopped my dad from going to the store; or left the house when mom told me to; or maybe stopped Ethan Hastings, the shooter, before he could get to my dad.

  Hastings never got sent to prison. He’s out there right now living his life as if nothing ever happened.

  His parents are very powerful people, and were able to have their son get away with murder—literally get away with murder.

  Right up until the last moments of his life, my dad was a hero, not that that helps much. I lost him forever, after all. The bullet was meant for the storekeeper, but my dad stepped in front, pushing the storekeeper to safety.

  Why can’t I have nice dreams about my dad, or more of Clara? Why am I always haunted by that night that changed my life forever?

  I would do anything to have my dad back.

  Chapter 2

  Clara is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen; she belongs on a screen, not in the school hallway. I can’t just glance at her and go on. My eyes lock onto her, studying her body as a whole, and then review each and every little nuance that makes her a work of art.

  Her blonde hair is more than yellow; as she laughs her hair shimmers golden. Her green eyes have little specks of blue, gold, and brown that make them look almost like a kaleidoscope of perfection. Her jaw has a soft angle to it, and her nose is thin and straig
ht. And her body… well, I’ll leave a few things to the imagination. She fills out her cheerleading uniform quite well.

  “Why do you do that?” Douglas, my best friend, asks.

  I try to ignore him, savoring the moments I have to stare at Clara.

  My body begins to heat up, not from looking at Clara and imagining that she’s my girl, but from Douglas. His body gets too close to mine for my liking; he has no sense of personal space.

  “I’ve got the new Call Of Duty game, you want to come over tonight to play?” Kimi announces as she walks up to us. She’s the only girl that speaks to Douglas and me. She’s Asian, and the only girl I know that enjoys computers. Talk about stereotypes.

  Let me check my schedule… yep, empty. “Sure.” I’m always either at her house or Douglas’s.

  “I hear the graphics are meant to be way better than the last game’s.”

  “Oh yeah,” I nod.

  “It’s pointless trying to get any sense out of him, you know he’s in Clara daydream world. That’s harder to break into than any computer game.”

  “You’re too good for her,” Kimi says as she stands next to me.

  Me, too good for her? Guess Kimi skipped her meds this morning.

  “More like she’s way out of his league,” Douglas reminds me. “Besides, she’s with Travis now.”

  “I know,” I say, not breaking my gaze. I know that they had their first date three weeks ago. They text each other constantly, even when they’re sitting in the same classroom together. I have the pleasure of sitting at a desk right between them in history, and can hear the vibrations of their phones and the soft giggles from Clara. It makes me wish that she were reading texts from me instead of Travis.

  “And she’s mean.” I can feel the hot breath of Douglas as he says that right into my ear.

  “I heard she refused to invite one of the cheerleaders to her birthday party because the girl wore the wrong color of ribbon in her hair to a football game,” Kimi adds.

  “There’s a dress code the cheerleaders have to follow,” I say. “It’s not fair for one of them to go rogue. You should get that,” I say to Kimi. Kimi knows that deep down she wants to be a cheerleader

  “Why?”

  “Cause you’re a girl.” As soon as I say it I wish I hadn’t. “I didn’t mean that.” Why are they both trying to spoil the best moment of the day?

  “Jesus, Parker. I heard she wore the wrong color because Clara changed the color at the last minute and purposely didn’t call the girl.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t know you followed gossip.” I’m not into rumors and really don’t care about a hair-bow color. I doubt that Clara would do something like that. Or perhaps it was simply a misunderstanding.

  I mean, look at her.

  She’s standing against a bank of lockers with her friends, laughing at something one of them said. And when she laughs, her eyes light up like stars on a clear winter’s night.

  She catches sight of me and turns to her closest friend, Britany, and whispers something in her ear. Then the two of them begin to laugh again like they’ve just heard the funniest joke in the world, all while staring at Douglas, Kimi, and me.

  “See?” Douglas hisses next to my ear. “She thinks we’re a joke.”

  I refuse to acknowledge him.

  How does he know that she and Britany are laughing at us? They might be talking about something else. Just because they’re looking at us… actually, it’s kind of cool that they’re looking at us. That means they know we exist.

  I start to explain that to Douglas when my locker door is suddenly slammed shut, narrowly missing my fingers. I turn, ready to tell Douglas just what I think of his attitude.

  But it’s not Douglas standing behind me anymore.

  “Quit staring at my girlfriend!” Travis snarls as he leans close to me, spittle flying out of his mouth. Quarterback of the football team, star of the basketball team, and record holder on the track team—you name it, he’s good at it.

  “I catch you staring at her again, I will kick your ass.” I feel my shoulders caving in, what little confidence staring at Clara gave me disappearing, as Travis confronts me.

  He’s not just blowing hot air; Travis will kick my ass.

  “Answer me,” Travis says, moving even closer.

  “I wasn’t staring,” I tell Travis.

  Travis comes closer. “What’s wrong with you, why aren’t you staring at her? Look at her.” Either way I can’t win this. I choose not to answer.

  Travis flicks my glasses off my face, knocking them to the floor.

  Kids in the hallway snigger.

  I can feel the blood rising in my cheeks, making them prickle with heat. I don’t need a mirror to know that my face is turning bright red, highlighting my pale face.

  “Quit it Travis,” I say, before I can say anything else, Douglas does.

  “Which is it?” Douglas asks.

  “What?” Travis replies.

  “Is Parker meant to look at her or not? Which is it?” he asks, like he’s asking if someone wants chocolate or strawberry ice cream.

  Travis slams Douglas’s head against the metal locker with a thud.

  “Ouch.”

  “What’s in your hair?”

  Travis and Douglas both speak at the same time.

  “Gel. Looks good, doesn’t it?” Douglas says, rubbing his head.

  “Gel? Good?” Travis looks at his hand in disgust, then wipes it down Douglas’s tropical shirt. Travis shakes his head.

  “Mr. Conrad's coming,” one of Travis’s goons says.

  “Keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you,” Travis threatens, pushing me into my locker before leaving me humiliated as always.

  I bend down to get my glasses. Kimi goes down at the same time. “I’ve got them.”.

  Chapter 3

  I feel like the person that creates my school schedule is invisibly spying on me, dragging me to the worst classes then giving me a little bit of hope with others, making me not want to completely skip school forever.

  Most of my day sucks. First is algebra with Douglas, and he likes to rub it in my nose how much better at it he is. I know I could be the top of the class, but why bother? I let Douglas have that. Next, English is with a group of giggling cheerleaders who make it nearly impossible to hear the teacher’s lecture. Kimi’s in that class as well. Comparing our sketches is the only thing that keeps me awake. After that is biology with the football team, yippee frigging yay.

  Finally, I have the jewel of the day: history, the best hour of my day. I’ve always liked history and learning about the way in which the world was molded and normal by one crazy person’s idea, and how if you changed just one thing the outcome could be very different.

  But the real reason I like history is because Clara’s in my class. The only thing that makes it less than perfect is the fact that Travis has that class, too.

  Clara sits in front of me. The golden strands of her hair neatly rest on the back of the seat. Travis sits behind me, which means I can pretend to be listening in class, but actually stare at the back of Clara, and Travis can’t do anything about it.

  That’s exactly what I’m doing when I feel something hit the back of my head. Travis’s favorite game is tossing spitballs in my hair.

  “Jesus Travis, grow up,” I say.

  I use my sweater sleeve and wipe the spit off my head, only to be greeted with the muffled laughter behind me. Travis and his friends are laughing at me.

  Great. Just what I wanted to do today, a big joke for Travis and his friends.

  Kimi doesn’t laugh with everyone else. She stares at Travis like she’s ready to leap from her chair and attack him. She doesn’t stand for his crap, which makes her a bigger target for his taunts. Kimi doesn’t help herself; she wears the weirdest clothes, as if she’s still stuck deciding between her Japanese subcultures look and US style. Today she’s wearing heavy black boots with a raised platform, a tartan mini skirt, and
a sports sweatshirt on top. She is unique. But after two years of her living here, one really would think she would have worked it out.

  “Travis, if you and your friends would like to pay attention, even you might find this next bit interesting,” Mr. Conrad, the teacher, calls from the front of the room. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, just as I do when I’m frustrated or bored.

  The laughter quiets down, but doesn’t disappear completely.

  Mr. Conrad waits next to his desk and slowly, very slowly, the class finally quiets down. If I have to guess, I would say he is my mom’s age. He dresses like he’s trying to be a cool school teacher. He’s not as stuffy as the other teachers here. Plus, he dislikes Travis just as much as I do—well, not Travis himself, but kids like Travis. After class one day he kept me behind and told me that I need to stand up for myself. Easier said than done.

  “If you will turn your eyes this way.” Mr. Conrad points toward the smartboard hanging at the front of the room. With a stroke of a key on his computer, a picture of six Asian men with very impressive tattoos on their backs appears on the board. Immediately there are hoots and hollers all around the room.

  “Quiet down,” Mr. Conrad says. “Some of the kids are here to learn!”

  They never actually shut up. Some of the guys behind me, Travis included, start whispering about the geishas displayed in the tattoos. You would think they had never seen the artful rendition of a woman before. And some of them wonder aloud if the ones with men tattooed on their backs are gay.

  “No,” Mr. Conrad says. “The tattoos can depict almost anything, from a fallen comrade to an ancestor of the man wearing it.” He looks pointedly at the boys behind me. “And you might find it interesting that those tattoos do continue below their clothing.”

  “Everywhere?” someone calls out.

  “Everywhere,” Mr. Conrad says, his face reddening slightly. And that, more than the words themselves, sets the class to laughing again. It takes a minute before they calm down.

  “These men are members of a group that is referred to as Yakuza. The police consider them criminals, but there is a great deal of tradition among these groups.