In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Nathan Van Coops

  Books 1-3

  Nathan Van Coops

  St. Petersburg, Florida

  © 2016 Nathan Van Coops

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design by Damonza.com

  www.damonza.com

  Author photo by Jennie Thunell Photography

  www.jenniethunell.com

  Skylighter Press, St. Petersburg 33704

  Printed in The United States of America

  First Edition 2016

  www.nathanvancoops.com

  www.chronothon.com

  Books By Nathan Van Coops

  In Times Like These (Book 1)

  The Chronothon (Book 2)

  The Day After Never (Book 3)

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  In Times Like These (Book 1)

  Table of Contents

  Main Books Page

  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 1

  “Don’t assume that because you know something in the future won’t happen, that you can do nothing. Sometimes the reason it doesn’t happen is you.”

  -Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1997

  I have far too much of my life in my arms to even think of reaching for my phone when it starts ringing in my pocket. I concentrate on getting the key in the lock. That and not dropping the shoes, water bottles and mail I’ve hauled to the door of my apartment. I get the door open with my free fingers and just make it inside when one of the water bottles escapes, and the next moment, all but my useless junk mail is on the living room floor. I leave it there and open my phone the moment before it gives up on me.

  “Hey Carson, what’s up?”

  “Dude. You coming to batting practice?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there. Just got home from work.”

  “Okay, can you check the weather while you’re there?”

  “No problem. Be there in a few.”

  I toss my phone and the junk mail onto the couch and locate the remote in the cushions. The station is still on commercials, so I head for the kitchen. Depositing the remote on the counter, I turn to the refrigerator out of habit. It’s still just as sparse as the last time I checked. I settle for my one remaining bottle of water and head for the bedroom to change. The news broadcast comes on from around the corner.

  “Welcome back to News Channel 8. In a few moments we’ll get your Drive Time Traffic and weather, but first, a look at today’s top stories.

  “Today was the conclusion of the eight month trial of Elton Stenger, the man accused of murdering fourteen people in a series of vicious car bombings and shootings throughout the state of Florida. Judge Alan Waters ruled today that Stenger be convicted, and serve fourteen consecutive life sentences, a record number for the state of Florida. Stenger is being transported today into federal custody and will be tried in the state of New York for three additional murders.”

  I pull my paycheck from my shorts pocket and lay it on the dresser. It’ll be gone in a week. Emptying the meager contents of my wallet out next to the check, I extract enough cash for a couple of post-game beers. Minimal celebrating is still better than no celebrating.

  “Today is a monumental day for St. Petersburg and the entire scientific community, as the St. Petersburg Temporal Studies Society gets set to test their latest particle accelerator, what they claim may be the world’s first time machine. They will attempt to launch a number of particles through time and space in their laboratory here in St. Petersburg today.

  “We have correspondent David Powers on the scene. David, what’s going on down there?”

  I get into my athletic shorts and snag some socks. Where the hell did I put my uniform shirt? I cruise through the living room to head for my laundry closet.

  “ . . . and while the potential applications of the experiment are yet to be determined, one thing is for certain, these researchers won’t be wasting any time. Back to you, Barbara.”

  I glimpse the blonde woman grinning on screen with her co-anchor. “Next thing we know they’ll be rolling out a Delorean. Certainly a day to remember. Now we go to Carl Sims with our weather update.”

  I know what it’s going to say. Hot. Chance of thunderstorms. This is Florida. I locate my wrinkled Hit Storm shirt in the laundry basket, and slide it over my head as I walk back around the corner to the TV. Just as expected, the little cloud and lightning symbol dominates the entire week.

  When I arrive at the field, most of the team is already there. I spot Carson’s orange hair as he’s out on the mound throwing batting practice. As I step out of my car, the moist, sweet smell of clay and grass clippings makes my shoulders instantly relax. Each step I take toward the field helps the tension of my workday ebb away. Robbie is donning his cleats in the dugout as I walk up.

  “Hey, man.” I throw my glove into the cubby beside his.

  “What’s up, Ben? How’s it going?”

  “Hoping we’re going to get to play this one,” I reply.

  “Yeah me too, I’m going to forget how to swing a bat if we keep getting rained out.” Robbie stands and stretches his arms toward the roof of the dugout. My arms would reach it. At 5’8” Robbie’s come up short. What he lacks in height he makes up for in fitness. Despite his on again, off again cigarette habit, he can still out-sprint anyone on the team. His lean and muscular physique is contrasted by his relaxed demeanor; a constant state of ease that makes me feel like I’m rushing through life by comparison.

  “Have we got enough people tonight? I know Nick said he was going to be out of town in Georgia or something like that.” I kick off my flip-flops and start pulling on a sock.

  “Yeah, I think Blake’s going to second and Mike’s filling in at catcher. We should be good. There’s Blake now.” Robbie gestures with his head while he leans forward and stretches his arms behind his back.

  Blake’s Jeep pulls into the space next to my truck. I’m happy I’m not the only one who has missed most of practice. Blake and I have a lot in common, including our propensity for arriving fashionably late. Blake’s my height, and while his hair borders on black compared to my brown, we occasionally get mistaken for brothers.

  “You wanna throw?” Robbie asks, as I finish lacing up.

  “Yeah.” I grab my glove and the two of us toss the ball along the sideline until Blake joins us.

  “Is Mallory making it out to the game tonight?” I ask Blake as he lines up next to me.

  He stretches his right arm across his chest and then switches to the other one. “I doubt it. She has to watch her niece and I don’t think she wants to bring her out.”

  We never get many fans at our games. Blake’s girlfriend is the most frequent but e
ven her appearances have gotten rare. I keep inviting people, but apparently Wednesday nights are more highly valued elsewhere. Can’t remember the last time a girlfriend of mine made it out to a game. Three seasons ago? Four? I suppose managing to keep one longer than a few months might help.

  Carson pitches us each a bucket of softballs, and I knock the majority of mine toward an increasingly dark right field. We ignore the clouds as much as possible and concentrate on practice. Once everyone has hit, we mill around the dugout, stretching, while Carson gives me his appraisal of our chances.

  “These guys should be cake for us. I watched them play last week. I think we’re going to crush ’em.”

  I consider the big athletic guys filling the opposing dugout and realize that Carson might be overly optimistic, but I don’t argue. “We’re definitely due for a win.”

  Carson starts jotting down the lineup. He’s full of energy today. I admire that about him. At twenty-five, he’s a little younger than me, but about a year older than Blake. He has no trouble organizing things like this. Sports are his arena. He’s naturally talented at all of them. I could outrun him. Blake could outswim us both, but Carson has everybody beat on all-around athleticism. He makes a great shortstop in any case. The other teams have learned to fear both his fielding abilities and his trash talking skills. Blake and I flank him on the field at second and third base respectively.

  We walk out to our positions and are waiting for Robbie to throw the first pitch, when a thunderclap rumbles through the clouds. The umpire casts a quick glance skyward, but then yells, “Batter Up!”

  I’m digging my cleats into the dirt at third when I notice my friend Francesca walking up from the parking lot. She catches my eye and sticks her tongue out at me before sitting down next to Paul, our designated hitter. I scowl at her and she laughs, and then turns to greet Paul. What do you know? We did manage a fan tonight.

  The crack of the bat jerks my attention back to the game as the ground ball takes a bad hop a few feet in front of me and impacts me in the chest. It drops to the ground and I scramble to bare hand it, making the throw to first just a step ahead of the runner. I rub my chest as I walk back to my position. That’ll be a bruise tomorrow.

  Robbie walks the next batter as I start to feel the first few drops of rain. The third batter grounds to Blake at second. He underhand tosses the ball to Carson who tags the base and hurls it to first for a double play, just as a bolt of lightning flashes beyond right field. Carson’s yell of success over the play is drowned out by the boom of thunder. I head for the dugout, hoping we’ll get a chance to hit, but as the outfielders come trotting in, they’re followed by a dense wall of rain. I step into the dugout before the heavy drops can soak me.

  “Hey Fresca, What’s shakin’?” I plop down next to Francesca on the bench.

  “I finally make it to one of your games and this is how you treat me?” She gestures to the sheets of rain now sweeping the field.

  “I ordered you sunshine and double rainbows, but they must not have gotten the memo.”

  “I was worried I was going to get arrested getting here, too. Did you see all those cop cars downtown?”

  I think about it for a second, then remember the newscast. “It’s probably all that trial stuff going on.”

  “Oh, right.” She turns to Blake as he sits down next to me and props his feet on the bucket of balls. “Hey, Blake.”

  “Hey, Francesca. Thanks for coming.”

  “Looks like I’ll be witnessing your drinking skills instead. Are you all heading to Ferg’s now?”

  “I think we’re going to see if this passes first.” I watch the puddles building on the field.

  Carson dashes back into the dugout from his conference with the umpires and drips all over the equipment as he explains the situation. “We’re on delay for now. They’re going to see how wet the field gets.”

  I play along with his optimism. Most of our team has already gone to their cars to wait, but I’m not in any hurry to leave the company of my friends. I can tell that this storm isn’t likely to be over fast. Anyone with a few years of Florida weather experience gets to know the difference between a quick passing shower and a prolonged storm, and this one appears to be settling in for the evening. I’m bummed to not be playing for another week, but even rainout beers are better than being at work.

  “I guess those guys don’t think it’s going to let up,” Robbie says, noting the opposing dugout clearing out.

  Carson picks up his clipboard. “If it stops and they don’t have enough players to re-take the field, we win by forfeit.”

  “I came here to play. I hate winning by forfeit,” Robbie grumbles.

  “What’s new with you, Blake?” Francesca steers the conversation away from our glum prospects.

  “Did Ben not tell you the news yet?”

  “No, he’s obviously slacking in the gossip department. What’s your news?”

  Blake looks at me. “Should I show it to her?”

  “You have it with you?”

  “Yeah, it’s in my Jeep.”

  “What is it?” Francesca’s curiosity is piqued.

  “Be right back.” Blake gets up, walks past Carson, who is in deep concentration over the stats sheet, and dashes into the rain toward the parking lot.

  “What’s he got?” Francesca brushes a strand of dark hair out of her eyes.

  “It’s pretty impressive.” I grab my flip-flops out of the overhead cubbies and start changing out of my cleats.

  Robbie follows my example. “It’s not looking good.”

  A minute later, Blake dashes back into the dugout holding a plastic bag. He sits next to Francesca and unwraps the package, revealing a jewelry box.

  “Oh for Mallory?” Francesca exclaims. Blake pries open the lid and displays the diamond ring inside. “Ooh, you did good Blake!” Francesca takes the box and looks adoringly at the ring.

  “Well it’s time,” he replies.

  “How long have you two been dating now? Four years?” Carson’s interest in the statistics sheet is waning.

  “Yeah, I wanted to wait till she finished grad school, but now that she’s almost done, we’re taking the leap.”

  “That’s awesome, man.” Robbie pats Blake on the shoulder.

  We pass the ring box around, admiring it as the rain beats down on the dugout. Under the bright lights of the baseball diamond, the ring sparkles even more than the last time I saw it. Mallory’s going to love it. I need to find a ring like that. I need to find a girl like that.

  I close the ring box and pass it on to Robbie. As I do, an exceptionally bright lightning bolt sears across the sky and hits what can only be a few blocks away. The thunderclap is deafening and immediate. The bench is a symphony of expletives and Francesca clenches my arm and pulls herself against me.

  “Holy shit that was close!” Robbie says.

  A high-pitched whine like a jet engine begins to emanate from the direction of the strike. It grows louder and is followed by an explosion of bright blue light that domes up through the rain and illuminates the cloudy sky.

  “What the hell—” is all that escapes my mouth, before a deafening bang from a transformer blowing behind us drowns me out. I’m still too startled from the shock to move when the severed end of a power line whips into the end of the dugout and lands on the far end of our bench. The last thing I sense before blacking out is the sight of my friends glowing with a pale blue light, and the sound of Francesca screaming.

  Chapter 2

  “If you meet experienced time travelers, you can usually trust that they are intelligent. The nature of this business rapidly weeds out the morons.”

  -Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2110.

  I open my eyes to bleary but bright sunlight. I’m lying on my back staring at a clear blue sky. The bright light worsens the ache in my head, so I close my eyes again. I can feel the heat of the sun on my face and the dry itchy feeling of grass on my arms and the backs of
my ears. There’s definitely something crawling on my arm, but I’m too unmotivated to care. I monitor the slow progression of little insect feet, trying to gauge the threat. Lady bug maybe? Spider? I consider the most likely candidates. Shit, if it’s a fire ant, there’s probably a zillion more around. I open my eyes and angle my head slowly upward, trying to locate the intruder in the crook of my elbow. My eyes adjust to the light and I make out the ant. Not a fire ant. I lay my head back and stare at the midday sky. Why is it daytime?

  A low moan comes from my right. Francesca is lying next to me, her dark hair spread around her and her fingers clenched in the grass. My eyes travel down her back to the wisp of smoke rising from the backside of her jeans. This moves me to action. “Francesca you’re on fiaargh.” My body objects to movement, and I collapse back onto the ground. Son of a bitch that hurt.

  I try again, slowly this time. I roll up to my elbow and reach a hand out to Francesca’s shoulder. “Hey. Fresca. You okay?” She doesn’t respond. Beyond Francesca, Blake and Carson are likewise lying in the grass. Blake’s legs are extended over the bench of the dugout, only there is no more dugout. I twist and look back toward my feet. The bench is there but the roof of the dugout and the cubbyholes where I stashed my glove and water bottle have disappeared. The opposing dugout is gone too. In its place is only the cement slab and the bench. I twist farther and see Robbie sitting up behind me. “You okay?”

  He rubs a hand over his shaved head. “I think so. What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are the others all right?” He tries to stand, but staggers and sits down on the bench instead. “Agh, there’s something wrong with my feet!”

  I shake Francesca again and she rolls onto her back, but doesn’t open her eyes. Blake sits up on the other side of her and looks at his hand. There’s a red scorch mark across his palm. He rubs it with his other hand as Robbie slides down the bench to nudge Carson. Blake turns his right foot toward him and I see a hole through the center of his cleat with melted edges.