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

by Nathan Van Coops

  “Hey, you okay?”

  He grimaces. “Yeah. Looks like we got a little crispy though.”

  I feel around my backside and find a singed hole in my athletic shorts. “Ah, man . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just apparently got shocked through my butt cheek.” Francesca’s eyes are open now. I lean toward her. “Hey. You all right?”

  She tilts her head toward me. “I feel awful.”

  “Join the club.”

  “What happened?”

  “We got electrocuted,” Blake says.

  “What happened to the field?” Robbie says from the bench. Carson is sitting up now also, staring blankly past me.

  “I don’t know. That’s throwing me off, too.” I stare at the open sky where the roof of the dugout ought to be. I blink twice, half expecting to see the illusion disappear and the dugout rematerialize. The vacant space refuses to yield. I climb to my knees and gingerly take a seat on the bench.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Francesca has her hand on her backside and has discovered the burn hole. “I just bought these.” She mutters a little more and extends a hand for me to pull her up. She twists to inspect her jeans again, then sits down next to me.

  “What time is it?” Carson climbs to his feet and brushes some grass clippings off the shoulder of his shirt.

  “Looks like the middle of the day,” I say, looking at the sun.

  “Were we out here all night?” Francesca asks.

  “I don’t see how. When I woke up, your jeans were still smoking.”

  “What?” Francesca pivots to check her backside again.

  “Something weird is going on.” Blake is fingering the chain link fence between us and the field. “None of this looks right.”

  “Dude, where are our cars?” Carson springs off the bench and hobbles toward the parking lot. I follow him. Blake limps along with us. The only car in the parking lot is a dark red Ford Tempo. Carson looks fruitlessly for his pickup truck. Mine is gone too. “This is so not cool.” Carson holds his hands to his orange hair.

  Good thing my truck is a piece of junk. Who would want to steal it though? I walk over to the Tempo. The paint job is shiny and clean. The interior looks pristine as well. I lean down and note the original stereo system. Somebody has really gone to some pains to restore this thing. Who would restore a Tempo?

  “We need to call the cops,” Blake says. He shouts back to Robbie and Francesca, “Do either of you have your phones?” I turn away from the car and follow him back toward the bench. His fingers go to his pockets as he’s walking, and he shouts again. “Hey! Anybody see the ring?”

  I inspect the ground as Blake hobbles toward the bench. “I think I had it last,” Robbie says. He stands up and looks around, evidently no longer in possession of it.

  I’m working my way closer when Francesca exclaims, “Is that it?”

  Blake vaults the bench to the place she’s indicating and snatches the ring box out of a clump of grass. The muscles of his face relax as he opens it and finds the diamond still inside. He slips the box into his pocket.

  “That would have sucked,” Carson says. Francesca removes her phone from her pocket and opens it. Carson watches her punching buttons. “Did it get fried?”

  “No, it’s still on, but I’m not getting any signal.” She hands the phone to Robbie. “Here. You mess with it. I’m cold. Is anyone else cold?”

  “It is kind of cool out,” Carson responds.

  “So what are we doing? Are we trying to call the cops?” I look around the empty field and see no sign of our other teammates or the opposing players.

  “If we can get any kind of signal.” Robbie holds the phone up and walks around.

  “So wait, I don’t get what’s going on,” Francesca says. “What happened to the field? Are we at the same place? What happened to the dugouts?”

  Robbie shuts the phone. “I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  Blake is inspecting the scorch on his palm again. “We should probably get ourselves checked out at a hospital. Some of these burns might need attention.”

  A door opens in a house across the street and a woman with a perm walks to the sidewalk to check her mail. As she collects it, she takes a side-long glance in our direction before going back inside.

  “Did you see that woman’s hair?” Francesca asks. “It was huge.”

  “Pretty out of control,” Carson agrees.

  “Nice mom jeans, too.” Francesca scoots over for me to sit down next to her.

  “Are we getting pranked right now or something?” Robbie asks. “Why is the field different looking?”

  “If somebody thought pranking us after we just got electrocuted was funny, I’d probably kill them,” Carson says.

  “Who would be capable of doing something like this?” I ask. “This would be really elaborate. Besides, the only people who ever prank me are sitting right here.”

  “Maybe the electrocution messed with our heads,” Francesca suggests. “Maybe we’re just remembering it wrong?”

  “All of our batting gloves and mitts and stuff were in those cubbies. We had bats and balls and water in the dugout. It’s all gone. How could we remember that wrong?” Carson asks.

  “My batting gloves are actually still here.” I pull them up from between where Francesca and I are sitting on the bench. “I guess if we moved, these managed to come with us.” I stroke the leather of the gloves between my fingers. What happened to the rest of my stuff? I have a nagging at the back of my mind like I’m missing something. I stare at the baseball diamond, trying to make sense of the changes. I feel like it’s there, right in front of me, but I just can’t see it. “Did you guys see the power line hit the end of the bench?” I look up at the poles near the street, the power line hanging benignly between them.

  Francesca shakes her head. “I just remember the noise.”

  “And the results.” Blake holds up his scorched hand.

  Carson shields his eyes from the sun while looking up at the lines. “I saw it. But it’s back up there now.”

  “Maybe Francesca’s right,” Blake says. “Maybe our brains are fried, because none of this is making any sense.”

  “You guys want to try to walk to find a place where this phone will work, or maybe find a payphone?” Robbie scratches the back of his head. “There might be one over on Ninth Street.”

  “Walking? Really?” Francesca says. “We just got electrocuted.”

  “Well, we can sit here I guess, but without a phone, I don’t really know that we’re going to get much help,” Robbie says. “You can try to ask mom-jeans across the street I suppose.”

  “And tell her what?” Blake asks. “That we got shocked by a phantom, self-repairing power line? I think we’re better off not trying to convince people of that one, till we know what’s going on.”

  Francesca stands up. “Fine, but I’m walking in back so none of you guys look at my butt.”

  “You can’t see anything. You’re fine,” Carson replies from behind her.

  “Hey, stop looking!” Francesca shoos Carson in front of her.

  Blake smiles and looks over at me. “You okay, man? You look dazed.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just trying to figure out what on earth happened to us.”

  We walk to the street and turn east.

  “I’m so pissed about my car!” Carson spouts. “I had my iPod in there, and all my stuff for work. My wallet’s in there, my phone . . .”

  “Who would steal all of our cars? And how would no one notice five people lying on the ground all night, or notice and not say anything?” Blake asks.

  A couple cars pass us and we get out of the way. Something about the cars. What am I missing?

  “These people are all staring at us funny. I know I’m looking smoking hot, rocking these grass clippings in my hair, but seriously, what’s their deal?” Francesca says.

  “Smoking hot in the literal sense today,�
� Carson adds.

  “Ha ha. Shut up, Carson.”

  “Well it’s true. And you smell like a charcoal briquette. You should really market that scent.”

  Francesca scowls back. “At least smelling odd is a change of pace for me, electrocution had to improve your B.O.”

  “That’s just real man smell.” Carson smiles. “You never used to mind it before.”

  “Before. Oh, before that night you left me sitting at home on our date night so you could go drink with the girls’ swim team?” Francesca says. “That before?”

  “You always bring that up. We weren’t even serious,” Carson says. “And I told you, it was a fundraiser. They needed help.”

  Francesca turns and faces him, stopping them in the road. “It was our two month anniversary. And no legitimate fundraiser involves belly-button Jello shots.” Blake looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I smile and we keep walking ahead. “But you’re right, Carson, it wasn’t serious, because you never take anything seriously,” Francesca continues.

  “Hey. Don’t take out your frustration about this out on me,” Carson says. “I didn’t ask you to come to the game.”

  “I’m still going to blame you, Carson,” Francesca fumes. “We probably only got struck by lightning because God is smiting you for being a jerk!” She turns and grabs Robbie’s arm and keeps walking.

  “You got electrocuted, too,” Carson says. “So what does that make you?”

  Francesca ignores him. I decide to interject. “Hey, guys. When do you think the Ford Tempo came out?”

  “The car?” Robbie asks. “I don’t know. Late eighties maybe? Early nineties?”

  “I’d say mid-eighties,” Carson contributes, trotting to catch up and escape Francesca’s fury.

  “Do they still make them?”

  “I don’t think so,” Robbie says. “Why?”

  “That car back in the parking lot was a Tempo, but it was in pristine shape, like it was brand new. I was just thinking how long it’s been since I’ve seen a car like that new. All the cars that have been driving by us and the ones we’ve been walking past have been older models, too.”

  We look around at the cars parked in driveways and on the street. A line of three cars is ahead of us on the right. As we approach, Robbie speaks up. “Yeah, these are all older cars. That last one is a Datsun 280Z. Those are definitely older. My brother used to have a ’78, till he wrecked it.”

  As I walk around the first car, a Dodge Aries, my mind is wrestling with what I’m beginning to suspect. I look in the windows and notice the radio. “This thing has an original stereo. Not even a tape deck.”

  “Dude, this one’s registration is a little out of date, wouldn’t you say?” Carson comments from the back of the next car, a slightly battered Plymouth Duster. “It says June of ’86.”

  “This one is December ’85,” Blake adds from the rear of the Datsun.

  I look at the silver Datsun with its black vent fins and my mind flashes back to the blonde on the newscast. “Next thing you know, they’ll be rolling out a Delorean.”

  Delorean. Tempo. Mom-jeans.

  “Shiiiit,” I blurt out, drawing out the syllable as I look at the license plate of the Aries.

  “What is it?” Francesca inquires.

  “Francesca, go look at the license plate of the car in that driveway.” I gesture across the street to a Volkswagen Beetle under a carport.

  “What am I looking for?” Francesca asks, as she walks over to the car.

  “The registration sticker on the license plate. What does the date say?”

  “July ’86,” she calls out when she reaches it.

  It can’t be. But what else would make any sense of this. “Guys, I hate to tell you this, but I think we might be in the eighties.”

  “What?” Francesca exclaims. “What?”

  It sounds even crazier out loud.

  “Ha. That’s funny,” Carson says. He looks at my face. “Wait, are you being serious?”

  Everyone stops moving.

  “There have to be plenty of other explanations,” Robbie says.

  “What are the odds that four cars on the same street would have registration stickers from 1986?” I contend.

  “Yeah that’s weird, I’ll give you that, but that doesn’t mean we’re in the eighties,” Robbie says.

  “Look. Today, before I got to the game, I caught a little bit of this thing on the news. They said there was an experiment going on in town. I wasn’t paying close attention, but they were talking about something they were trying to make travel through time. I didn’t think anything of it till we saw all these cars. But now that I’m looking at it,”—I gesture to our surroundings—“Does any of this look like it belongs in 2009?”

  No one speaks for a moment as we look around.

  “Are you saying we’re part of an experiment?” Francesca asks.

  “I don’t know, I’m just saying what I heard. They were doing something weird. They called it the something society. Time Society or something like that.”

  “This is crazy,” Blake says. “There’s no way we’re in 1986! Let’s get off this street and figure out where we are. Four cars on a street having old stickers doesn’t mean we’re in the eighties, or being experimented on. Something is wrong here and we just need to find out what it is.” He turns and reads the street sign on the corner. “Look. We’re on Thirteenth Avenue. Mallory’s house is only a couple blocks over. We’ll go there and we can sort out what happened to us. She can give us a ride to the hospital too if we need it. We’re obviously just having some sort of group hallucination or something.”

  I look at him and consider what he must be thinking, and then decide to stop arguing. Blake walks away with determined strides. I linger behind for a few moments, then follow reluctantly. I catch up to Robbie and say quietly, “I hope I’m wrong about this, but if I’m right, this could be a really bad idea.” Robbie gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t respond.

  We walk in silence for the next three blocks, only casting occasional glances at the cars and houses we pass. I notice that Blake is not even looking at any more of the cars, but directing his attention straight ahead, as if hoping to avoid any additional oddities in this day. I keep watching for things that would only exist in 2009. I scan yard decorations and patio furniture, check bumper stickers and even glance in backyards for signs of a Powerwheels car, or anything I know was not invented yet in the eighties. I spot a few more eighties registration stickers. Everything about the neighborhood seems either authentically dated or impressively retro. The whole experience is surreal. My conclusion of being in the eighties seems like a ridiculous guess and I don’t actually want to believe it myself. I feel that at any moment a more plausible explanation will prove me wrong and I’ll be able to laugh along with how outrageous my suggestion was.

  The only sound is the clacking of Carson and Blake’s softball cleats on the sidewalk and the steady slapping of the flip-flops worn by the rest of us. When we reach Mallory’s house, Blake pauses to consider a car I don’t recognize parked in the driveway. He then proceeds to the front door and rings the doorbell. I join him on the porch.

  The awnings on the windows have changed color to a brilliant blue, and a number of children’s toys are strewn in the yard, along with a Big Wheel tricycle. The gutters of the house still have Christmas lights strung along them. Not getting any response from the bell, Blake pounds on the front door. A few moments later, Mrs. Watson opens it, looking younger than I’ve ever seen her. She smiles pleasantly and takes a brief look at Blake and me on her porch, then glances at the others standing on her front lawn.

  “Hello, Mrs. Watson . . .” Blake begins, obviously shaken by her youthfulness and lack of recognition of any of us. “I’m looking . . . is Mallory here?”

  “Mallory?” Mrs. Watson responds with a confused expression. “She’s sleeping. I just put her down for a nap. I’m sorry, who are you?”

  Blake stares at her as if willing
her to recognize him. “I’m Bla—”

  “Pardon me,” I interject. “I think we have the wrong house. I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” The words feel strange coming out. I think she’s younger than me. I grab Blake by the arm to pull him off the porch. Blake looks awkwardly at Mrs. Watson, at a loss for words. She gives us a half-smile and watches me turn Blake around before she closes the door.

  Francesca walks to Blake and holds his other arm. Carson and Robbie follow us back onto the sidewalk, where we stand in silence for a moment. Blake is staring, shell-shocked, into space. A middle-aged man with a Labrador walks around us and begins to walk away, when Robbie calls out to him, “Excuse me, sir?” The man turns. “I’m sorry, but do you happen to know the date today?”

  “It’s the twenty-ninth,” the man replies.

  “Of . . . June?”

  “December.” The man looks at Robbie curiously now. He turns and continues walking a few more steps before Carson calls out to him this time.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but could you tell us the year?”

  The man looks as if he’s going to say something sarcastic, but seeing the seriousness of all of our faces, he simply replies, “1985.” And continues walking.

  It’s true.

  No one says anything for a minute as we look at our surroundings with a new sense of wonder. Francesca finally breaks the silence. “It’s no wonder I’m cold. It’s freaking December.” Robbie rubs Francesca’s bare arms, which indeed have goose bumps on them, though the temperature can’t be much lower than seventy.

  “This is the weirdest day of my life.” Carson holds his hands to his head.

  “I call bullshit,” Robbie says. “That guy was in on it.”

  “You saw Mrs. Watson,” I say.

  “I never really met her before.” Robbie crosses his arms. “Maybe she got a facelift.”

  “We’re in the eighties.” Francesca points her finger toward two kids walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. “No little kids are brave enough to dress like that in 2009.”