It was hard to force a benign expression. My brow wanted to crinkle every time the image of Mickey’s face flashed in my mind.
Clark, are you okay? You seem preoccupied,” Steve said, his double chin wiggling.
“Yeah. Just getting a little antsy about the time threshold thing. That’s the last great unknown we have to cross,” I said, resisting the urge to wrap my head in duct tape to keep it from flying apart.
“It’s not an unknown, Clark. There’s some information we’ve been keeping from you, about when you reach the time threshold—the point when you traveled back in time.”
“Really? Why in the fuck would you do that?” I said.
“Hold on, big guy. Just hear me out. Remember, we’re just taking orders like you,” Rick said. “When you traveled back in time, your returning self-displaced your original self.”
“Yeah. So? It has too. Virtual time doesn’t allow the paradox of original self and returning self to exist alongside because both contain the same atoms. The laws of physics can’t allow two exact copies of physical matter to coexist in virtual time.”
“What we didn’t tell you was that once we pass the time threshold, your original self will return. The Clark Truman standing before me today and all your new memories of the last week will vanish. Because you currently are the returning self, you blink out of existence and will be replaced by your original self, who will only have memories up to when you, the returning self, replaced him. It is an unfortunate consequence.”
“What! What kind of crap is this? I was told when the time door opened I just wouldn’t go through it this time. I thought it would be me of the right now that would step past the threshold.
Rick raised his hands to calm me down. “Intentional misinformation to preserve the mission. Clark, we have done something that only a god should be able to do by traveling through time. Time, just like any law of physics, has binding rules we can’t change. We didn’t want you to do anything risky to your body in the week where you went back in time knowing you wouldn’t be in that body past the threshold to worry about it.”
So, the misinformation was an invisible leash to keep me straight and true blue and hiding the fact the me of right now would essentially die. The plan worked. I never suspected my returning self would be replaced by my original self. In just a matter of minutes I was going to lose total memory of my second reliving of the week, including what happened with Mickey and Paul. Mickey would still be dead, and Paul would still be his killer.
“What happens if I go through the time door again?”
“You live the week over as your returning self. In fact, you could live that way for all eternity. Just like in the movie Ground Hog Day.” Rick grabbed me by the shoulder. “Come on Clark, we’re a half-hour away from opening the time door. We have to open it and you have to be there. Some of the scientists are worried if you’re not there as a witness, the universe collapses on itself.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“There is a theory that you need to be in the same location as before when the time door opens, because your original self will be returning in the Booth. Remember what Bohr said, ‘Nothing is real unless it is observed.’ And the Copenhagen interpretation, where it takes an observer to collapse a wave function, thus making its path a reality. The Quantum world is spooky, and observers are required to cement reality.”
“Thanks for preparing me for all of this,” I said, laughing nervously.
“Clark, you’re government property like the rest of us. Did you really expect every detail of this project to be above board?” Rick said.
I shook my head no, and felt like a schmuck for being such a Yankee Doodle Dandy. Steve pointed to the door and led the way to the next wing, and the Booth.
After scanning our cards through yet another card reader, a rent-a-cop at the entrance checked each holographic stamp with an ultraviolent light.
Just inside of the 20 x 40-foot control room, two Controller stations appearing as ordinary as home computers set ready to usher in the event over in the Booth, located at the opposite end of the room. My original self would arrive in the Booth.
The Booth was nothing but a boat meant to float through the waves of time. It was a simple 12 X 8 glass windowed titanium walled enclosure, with an uncomfortably hard plastic chair bolted to the floor.
The inside personnel consisted of the guard, the core agents, and a project scientist. This worked greatly in my favor.
Doctor Withers sat at the Controller station watching the countdown timer. It read 5:38, my time to act grew short.
Maintaining my composure was key from calling any unwanted attention. I was a rat in the cage waiting for an opening to break out.
Dr. Withers didn’t give me more than a curious glance when I had first walked into the room. He quickly returned to his computer monitor, absorbed in watching the countdown.
I casually made my way over to the Controller station. “Dr. Withers, I trust everything is still on schedule.”
The oil on Withers’ forehead gave it a waxed shine under the harsh lights. “Everything is lining up nicely. We’ve made history. And my name is going to be mentioned right next to Einstein’s from this day forward.”
Nothing like being humble about it, I thought, while looking at the information on Withers’ computer monitor. “Say Withers, isn’t it amazing how I’ve completed one trip back in time, yet in this current reality, I’ve yet to leave?”
An eerie groan cut through the room as the super-magnets reached full charge. Shields in place prevented the magnet’s flux-waves from affecting anything other than the Booth.
Withers didn’t answer. I thought the jerk was ignoring my question.
Then he spoke without emotion. “No. Not when you understand the true structure of time.”
It’s not like you fricking invented time, asshole, I thought, then, poised myself. “So, if you wanted to send me back again, all you would have to do is run the Alpha program?”
Withers looked at me curiously. “The Alpha program is running now set to the exact time you originally left. But you won’t be entering the Booth this time. You know that. We don’t need to create a time loop. We’re going to keep the time door open just past the point of your departure. You original self will arrive then and the threshold will be crossed.”
“Oh, I know. I was just asking,” I lied.
It was now or never. I walked away from Withers while I rubbed my hands together and then tugged at the collar of my shirt.
The guard, with his back to the wall and his hands on his hips had lost some of his earlier cockiness. He seemed uneasy now the Flyback machine was charged up. I stopped by his side. He didn’t acknowledge me.
I removed an ink pen from my pocket and started pushing the button on the end, making the tip click in and out. The guard looked over at me, questioningly. I gave him a toothy smile and continued to click my pen. With a smirk, he looked away.
I let the pen slip from my hand, and said, “Oops.”
Bending down as to retrieve the pen, my hand went to the guard’s revolver instead and jerked it from its holster. I shoved it to his chest before he could react.
The bullet found his heart at pointblank range. He slammed against the wall and his eyes bugged out from his head. His back left a trail of crimson as he slid to the floor. The blast echoed throughout the room. It seemed more like a dream than reality.
After pulling the emergency lock switch on the door, I targeted Ralph and Steve and killed them. I had instantly transformed into a cold-hearted murderer.
Withers leaned back in his chair, disbelief contorted his face. He shivered at the unspeakable violence. The bullet entered between his eyes and blew out a chunk of skull in the rear. It remained attached to the head, hinged to a flap of scalp. He rolled back a few feet with his arms sprawled out, the lanky man limp as a dead spider.
The gun dropped from my sweaty hand and I wiped it on my pants, feeling dirty and disgusted. I
was a desperate man. Desperate people do desperate things.
The computer monitor showed the countdown now at :32. I raced across the room and into the Booth, then, sat in the chair and had a full view of the carnage before me. Not only did I have to travel back in time and change things for my son, but for myself also.
* * *
The travel back in time did take somewhat of a toll on my body, turning from a solid to a plasma to a solid again. Fortunately, it was just a momentary thing.
My focus returned. I saw Withers through the glass sitting at the de-energized Control station, a smug look on his face. Rick, Steve, and the guard stood right where I remembered from my first trip.
Blessed relief soothed me now the room was clear of my murder spree. Finding my legs, I slowly rose from the chair, opened the door, and put on a happy face for my fellow project members.
“Well, it was one thing to think of this in theory, but damn I’ve got goose bumps watching it happening!” Rick said as he grabbed my hand, nearly shaking it off. “It’s June 10th, you were just standing right next to me. When the clocked ticked 13:00, you disappeared from my side and bam! There you were sitting in the Booth. You returned a week before we even sent you off. You have just proved all events in time happen simultaneously. We create virtual roads on 'simultaneous time' by observing them in a vehicle we've named the fourth dimension. Man has now found a way to make a U-turn on virtual time's road.”
Yep, I thought. And no one has a clue that this is my second time back.
*
After beginning the week anew, it didn’t take me long to narrow down the event that led to Mickey’s death. In the original timeline, I paid Paul a visit at his apartment when one of his more undesirable friends had arrived unannounced. He departed not long after, giving Paul the evil eye realizing I was in no hurry to leave. The last thing he said was that he would, ‘Check back later.’
When I said to Paul, ‘What’s his problem?’ he reacted defensively. I wasn’t in the best of moods that day and went off on him like Ward giving Beaver the business.
After leaving Paul that afternoon, I had regretted my outburst and wished I would have handled it differently. Avoiding the whole mess was easy the second time around. I simply skipped the visit that afternoon.
That inaction was the triggering event that led to Paul’s murderous craze.
June 16th arrived with the anticipation of a four-year-old on Christmas morning. By afternoon, I morphed into a balled-up wad of nerves, feeling as apprehensive as a prisoner does on execution day.
It was almost five o’clock and I was two blocks from Paul’s apartment, right on time with the original schedule.
My stomach had soured over lunch, fueled by my growing rage over the whole situation. I was angry with the drug dealer for being a rotten piece of human debris and a cancer to society, with Paul for getting involved with drugs, and even with myself for giving Paul too much rope in his personal life. I had given Paul just enough rope to hang himself.
Paul’s duplex apartment was a remodeled old house. The neighborhood built in the late 50’s and early 60’s was proverbial Americana for young married couples. Today it resembled a refuge for third world nomads. Hence, the quaint name given to it by the locals, ‘Afghanistan.’ Still, it was in biking distance to campus, and very affordable.
My heart beat unusually fast by the time I pulled into the driveway. Paul was locking his bike in the garage. Just like before. My salvation lied in maintaining the schedule.
Paul said hello after he gave me a hug and politely asked about his Mom. I stayed on script and handed Paul his week’s accumulation of mail, the purpose of my original trip. Paul’s birthday was Sunday. His Grandmother had sent him a card and a check. He would be pleased to have the extra money for the weekend.
In the distance, the faint rumble of deep bass from stereo woofers approached. It was Paul’s friend come to call, Slash Johnson. A stupid nickname, though slash is what loud music did to my nerves. Slash failed at making a good first impression.
My body language called enough attention to itself that Paul took notice and asked me if I felt okay. I ignored him, the rage inside swelled unlike anything before. I needed to be cool. I kept telling myself to be cool.
Slashed pulled the 1983 Cutlass Supreme to the side of the road in front of the duplex. The chest pounding bass stopped with the engine, much to my relief.
I found myself gritting my teeth as the skinny, greasy, young man stepped his way through the front yard and greeted Paul with some indecipherable slang.
“Slash, this is my dad, Clark. Dad, Slash Johnson.” Paul nodded toward Slash and then back to me.
“Pleased to meet you.” I repeated the same words I did originally, though this time the disdain in my voice was unmistakable. Hidden behind large dark sunglasses, Slash turned his head and gave me the smallest nod of acknowledgement. He then turned his attention back to Paul.
“I figured you’d be home from class by now,” Slash said.
Paul held up his mail. “Yeah, another week done. Dad just came by to bring me my mail.”
Slash waited, staring toward Paul; the tension thick. “Is Mickey home?”
Paul shook his head. “Mick won’t be back for a couple of hours. He had some homework to finish at the library so we could take the rest of the weekend off to celebrate my birthday.”
“Man, I’m glad I don’t have to worry about studying and shit. Too much going on in life to worry about that. Cut into my pussy time,” Slash said, hardly moving his lips.
My knuckles turned white on my clenched fists, holding back from pounding the smirk off Slash’s face.
“Why don’t you get back to your pussy, then?” The words left my mouth before I had time to reconsider.
“Dad?” Paul wasn’t ready for my outburst.
Slash slowly moved his head in my direction. “S’cuse me?” His cell phone buzzed—text message—he pulled the phone from his pocket and started punching keys. Drug money was more important than disrespect from an old man.
My blood pressure at this point must have been off the chart. Despite the fact I knew Slash was about to leave, I stepped forward and put my nose inches away from his.
“Dashing young man that you are, an obvious entrepreneur, why are you wasting your time around a couple of geeky college kids? Did Paul mention that I work for the Federal Government?” As disjointed as the words may have sounded, the message clearly got through by the tone of my voice.
Slash stopped texting, his facial expression changed from agitation to a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Here, let me help you back to your car.” I moved toward him, Slash immediately turned and headed for the street. The phone slipped from his hand as he went to pocket it.
Bending over to retrieve the phone, his rear end presented too big of a temptation. I put my perfectly polished twelve and a half black Oxford literally up his ass.
Slash lost his balance and hit the ground face first, sliding in the tall green grass. Paul may have yelled something in the background. I’m not sure. The numbing anger had me beyond rational thought.
Springing from the ground to salvage some dignity, Slash yanked his sunglasses off and wiped soft mud from his cheek, challenging me with his naked eyes.
My hand instantly went inside my jacket and a hold of the butt of my Sig Saur P250, wishing he would give me an excuse to use it. I almost said, Go ahead punk, make my day. I didn’t.
Slash hesitated, understanding how things would go down if he made one threatening move.
Never taking his eyes from me, he made the meanest scowl he could muster and walked back to his car. The engine roared to life. Then, the tire squealed, the stereo boomed, and Slash faded into the distance.
Paul lit into me as before with his indignation. Deserving it this time, I listened more than argue back.
*
The radio clock woke me the next morning blasting out some heavy met
al tune from the 1980s. I didn’t like the song when it was new, and I couldn’t like it less now. My knuckles crashed against the nightstand while reaching to turn the damn thing off. I’m good for that at least two or three times a week. You would have thought by now that I would have learned better.
I was angry with myself for losing control with Slash. There was so much uncertainty as to the consequences of my actions.
Originally, there was no confrontation with Slash at all. Slash had left after texting, apparently not returning that night to sell Paul the mushrooms.
Every possible scenario of my outburst played in my mind. The key factor should have been that Slash left without transacting a drug sale. When I was there the first time, the sale didn’t happen. When I wasn’t there the second time, it did happen. I was there this last time, it shouldn’t have happen. My prayers were for that line of reasoning to be true.
The apprehension, the suspense of yesterday’s outcome, had me on the toilette for much longer than normal.
Tamara slept soundly as I left the room after getting dressed. I had wanted to tell her about the week so badly, but I couldn’t risk it. It was for me to man up and handle my mistakes alone.
As I ate breakfast my eyes kept drifting toward the clock. Time seemed ten times slower than normal. The simple truth was, what could have happened, had already happened, or not.
The gate—was it opened or closed? My mind saw it both ways and the two different roads that lay down each. I didn’t want to face my new reality before the appropriate time, more out of trepidation than for keeping to the schedule.
Finally, the moment of truth made its arrival. I cleaned up my dishes, left the house, and opened the garage door. A slight breeze framed a warm summer morning as I Looked past the car through the doorway. I pretended everything was going to be fine.
Mind Hemorrhages: Dark Tales of Misery and Imagination Page 7
