Willie's Redneck Time Machine

by John Luke Robertson

  “You serious?”

  He’s examining the outhouse and asking questions similar to the ones you have about the antennas and the control panel on the front. Soon he manages to open the door.

  “John Luke?” Jase asks.

  But no John Luke.

  “You guys want to get me inside that thing,” you tell him.

  “I’ve never seen it in my life.”

  He’s really sounding believable.

  Jase steps into the small enclosure. You watch and wait for something to happen.

  The door slams shut. And once again the lights start flashing.

  Here we go again. Magic time!

  The lights are different colors from before. One is purple and the other is orange. You wait for them to stop. When they do, you open the door. No sign of Jase when you put your head inside.

  Of course Jase would be gone. How wonderful. How convenient.

  Once again you’re on your own. The magic show is continuing, and you’re the audience.

  So you have a few options here.

  Do you get inside and close the door to see what happens? Go here.

  Do you stay outside and call Korie? Go here.

  Do you feel your stomach rumbling and decide to grab a bite to eat at Duck Diner? Go here.

  A LONG, LONG, LONG TIME AGO

  YOU WAIT FOR A FEW MOMENTS, blinking and shaking your head, knowing you gotta wake up sometime.

  Instead, the door shuts. The room begins shaking. You feel motion underneath your feet. You hang on to a handle on the wall as everything shudders for a minute. Then it stops again.

  Uh-oh.

  Maybe the magic trick is over and you’re back in the warehouse now. But the door opens—and you hear wildlife outside. Lots of wildlife.

  You peer around the entrance and find yourself in the woods. No, scratch that. This is some kind of jungle. Like the Amazon jungle with thousand-year-old trees surrounding you.

  You step out and decide to find out where you are. An inner voice says you shouldn’t, but you guess the door will close again and you might just find yourself in some other place.

  You’ve been hunting before in some wild places, but nothing like this. The birds seem louder, the movement all around you more active. You see some monkeys moving just a little ways from you.

  You walk for a good hour or more until you reach a break in the trees.

  Then you see them.

  There has to be at least half a dozen of them.

  Are those called brontosauruses? What’s the other name?

  You feel like you’re in Jurassic Park, seeing these towering dinosaurs. But they’re right there, in the field in front of you. These glorious, amazing creatures. So beautiful. So serene.

  I think that one might be a brachiosaur.

  You’re mesmerized and barely hear the sounds of the jungle clearing behind you. When you turn, you notice another dinosaur.

  This one is a Tyrannosaurus rex.

  It’s beautiful too. But angry.

  Really angry.

  Whoa . . . he’s coming toward you!

  And the next thing you know . . .

  You find yourself back in the warehouse, back holding your cell phone in your hand, back getting some love from Britney Spears.

  And in one piece.

  No longer an appetizer for Sir T. Rex.

  THE END

  Start over.

  Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

  2319

  SO THIS IS THE YEAR 2319. You’re still trying to wrap your mind around it. The time machine seems to have adjusted itself at some point—either that or you haven’t been very observant. There’s a door you’ve never noticed before at the back of the control room. When you press a square button on the side of the wall, the door slides up and leads to a hallway lined with doors similar to the one you just passed through. They’re all marked:

  Medieval Times

  Skateboards and Bikes

  Mongol Empire

  World War II

  Dystopian World Outfits and Guns

  You stop at that last one. Dystopia. That’s like a really bad future world—you learned all about it from The Hunger Games. Better open the last door and see what’s inside, just in case that’s the sort of world you’re in right now.

  It’s a small room with futuristic rifles and handguns hanging on the wall and a couple of tables filled with matching attire. You pick out this really large cannon-like rifle with three barrels. You also decide to put on a black outfit that’s made of some heavy material. Maybe it’s flame resistant. Or bullet resistant. Or laser-death-fire resistant.

  You head to the main room of the time machine and peer outside. It appears to be nighttime since you can see nothing except burning buildings in the distance and lights streaming from the skies. But your immediate surroundings don’t seem too threatening (for the moment). So you exit and start to examine where you are.

  It’s definitely some kind of battleground. You pass by burned, overturned trucks every few steps. Lots and lots of wreckage can be seen. The field you’re in looks like a junkyard filled with heaps of charred metal.

  You hear gunfire up ahead and try to stay down. The massive rifle you’re carrying is heavy.

  When you’ve been outside for about twenty minutes, four piercing floodlights come on all around you, blinding you momentarily. You hold your hand in front of your face and blink until you can see it again.

  Then you hear a menacing voice, magnified from a distance.

  “Drop your weapons and come out into the open, or we’ll detonate the car you’re standing beside. Come out right now.”

  You realize you probably don’t have any options. Unless . . .

  Wait, is this one of those moments I get to choose something?

  But no—it’s not.

  You toss your rifle to the ground and lift your hands.

  Suddenly a swarm of people surrounds you. They’re wearing helmets and metallic gear with large blaster-like rifles. Someone puts you in cuffs.

  “Look, I’m not going to hurt—”

  Something hard slams against the back of your head. You have a hard head, but not that hard.

  All you see is darkness.

  When you open your eyes once again, you see four small walls around you. You’re seated at a table, your arms trapped in an immense synthetic-wood block that renders them immobile.

  Soon the door opens and a woman comes in. She’s wearing a military outfit of some kind.

  “State your name, your vital link, and the quadrant you’ve come from.”

  Vital link? Quadrant?

  “My name’s Willie Robertson,” you start to say, not sure what to do next.

  Do you tell them the whole truth? Go here.

  Do you try to make up a story? Go here.

  Do you decide to make a joke? Go here.

  A LONG, LONG TIME AGO

  YOU’RE NOT SURE why you’d need a life jacket in the middle of a desert like this, but why not? Maybe there’s water involved in whatever challenge you’ll be facing. When you exit the time machine, rain has started to fall. You put the life jacket under your arm and start walking down the track-covered road.

  After a few miles you arrive in a village unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

  To call it an ancient civilization wouldn’t be right. Because there’s no civilization here. You see only archaic huts and people in strange, rustic clothing. You try to talk to them, but nobody will respond to you. They all look at you with fear and trepidation.

  The rain continues to beat down, so you go underneath a small covering suspended between two trees.

  You feel like you’re on the show Survivor.

  The rain continues all night. You’d like to say that someone lets you come into their hut, but no.

  The next day it’s worse. You’re shivering and wondering when the downpour is going to stop.

  This is the day you hear someone talk abou
t Noah.

  “No . . . ,” you begin, and then you say, “ah.”

  You begin to understand a little about the choices you were given.

  “Where is this Noah?” you ask a big man with more hair than you.

  He only mumbles and shoves you down. The woman you ask next reluctantly tells you Noah is on the boat in the hills.

  “The boat in the hills. Where are the hills?”

  She points in the opposite direction from where you came. “It’s too dark to see them now, but you’ll find them if you head that way.”

  You wonder if your father is on that boat in the hills. Otherwise known as the ark.

  You peer through the rain. Then you put on your life jacket and begin the trek toward the vessel.

  You do make it to the massive boat in the hills, and it’s more spectacular and incredible than you ever could have imagined.

  You’re not the only one who journeyed to the ark. As each day passes and as the voices around you cry out, only to go unheard, you feel a bit of hopelessness coming on.

  As it turns out, the life jacket would be okay if you fell off a boat into the lake. But when it comes to gushing skies and turbulent, swaying floodwaters, a life preserver is like a flyswatter against Godzilla.

  You end up lasting longer than you would without the jacket, but not much.

  And oops . . . there you go again.

  You’re in the familiar warehouse, standing again, breathing again. Wondering what just happened.

  Wondering why in the world you’re soaking wet.

  THE END

  Start over.

  Read “The Morning Fog: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

  1990

  YEAH, PROBABLY A GOOD THING not to pick a fight with guys half your age. It could get ugly.

  You walk off toward the gym. You’re getting lots of looks. But it’s okay—you’re not doing anything abnormal. It’s just that here, people are wondering who in the world you are. Most places, people already know who you are, and they look anyway. At least nobody’s gonna come up and make you pose for a selfie with them.

  Back in 1990, there was no such thing as a selfie.

  And the world was a better place because of it.

  As you enter the gym, you notice a DJ near the back of the room. He’s actually playing records. That’s so vintage and cool.

  You scan the crowd but can’t see John Luke.

  What about Korie? What about me?

  The two of you, age eighteen, are somewhere in this building. Maybe dancing. Maybe talking with friends.

  You get this crazy idea in your head as you watch the DJ.

  What if you requested a song? Your song, the one Korie and you always sing when you’re doing karaoke.

  You smile.

  Or . . . what if you introduced the teens of West Monroe High to one of the greatest dance crazes ever to hit YouTube?

  You know you have to find John Luke. But sometimes in life you also gotta have fun. Especially if you’ve actually landed back at your prom.

  Do you decide to be responsible and find John Luke? Go here.

  Do you decide to play your karaoke song? Go here.

  Do you introduce the students to one of the greatest dance crazes ever? Go here.

  1863

  YOU DON’T STEP OUT of the machine at first. You wait, something you don’t always like to do. But from where you stand, squinting out of the duck-shaped opening in the door, you realize this thing you’re in—the outhouse—is resting in an open field. In the distance, you notice a group of men on horses. They’re dressed like Confederate soldiers.

  Maybe this is one of those places that does war reenactments.

  Regardless, you think they’ll start coming your way at any moment. But they don’t. They pass several hundred yards away as if they don’t see the machine.

  Maybe they don’t.

  Once they’re gone, you take a step out into the sunlight. As your eyes adjust, you hear the sound of a duck call—the Duck Picker, to be exact. You realize it must be Jase since no one else can do that call so well.

  You turn toward it and see him riding a horse behind another Confederate soldier. This one’s wearing a fancier and darker uniform than the men who passed by earlier. His face looks tough under his cap, and his beard makes him seem like he’d be at home at Duck Commander.

  “I finally got him!” Jase yells.

  When he pulls up next to you, Jase is out of breath. He’s somehow wearing a Confederate soldier’s uniform too. But he still has his signature shades on.

  “How’d you get that?” you ask.

  “I’ve been here for a week. What took you so long?”

  You shrug and try to figure out how Jase could have been in the 1800s for that many days. “A week? What are you talking about?”

  “That machine—the one you just traveled in. It’s a time machine. Didn’t you meet the big redheaded guy? Long hair and a beard?”

  You nod. “Yeah.”

  “He’s like the time travel guru. Didn’t really tell me how to work the thing, but he said you can’t actually die during time travel because things would get messed up, so yeah. You’ll just end up back at home, I guess. Nice to know.”

  “Uh-huh. Hey, is John Luke around here somewhere?”

  “Don’t think so, man. Haven’t seen him.”

  How are you going to find John Luke when he could be anywhere in time or space? “Where are we right now?”

  “This is Spotsylvania County in Virginia. It’s April 29, 1863.”

  “So let me get this right,” you say, staring at your brother on the horse. “You chose to go back to the Civil War?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What kind of idiot gets to travel in time and goes back to the Civil War? Do you want to die?”

  The Confederate soldier on horseback, who’s been watching you in silence all this time, clears his throat before interrupting. “I will not tolerate this any further!”

  He’s got a commanding voice with a deep Southern drawl. You know he’s gotta be someone important.

  “Go your own way and I will not follow you,” the man says.

  “Do you know who this is?” Jase asks you.

  You look at the face and swear you’ve seen this man before. He looks like someone you don’t want to mess with.

  “I keep tellin’ him I’m savin’ his life,” Jase says.

  Your brother hops off his horse and tries to help the soldier off too, but the guy doesn’t let him. He insists on dismounting on his own.

  “Tell him who you are,” Jase says to the man.

  The man has animated eyes that don’t fit with his sad, stern face. “My name is Lieutenant General Thomas Jonathan Jackson, commander of the second corps of General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. And I demand to be let go.”

  Jase looks like he just made the biggest catch of his life.

  “Wait a minute,” you say. “Are you Stonewall Jackson? General Stonewall Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  You’re not quite an expert on history here, but you try to remember what happened.

  “Isn’t . . . ? Where are we at?” you ask.

  “Near the village of Chancellorsville.”

  The commanding way the man speaks would be enough to encourage you to take a gun and go into battle.

  This is General Stonewall Jackson. The Stonewall Jackson.

  You almost ask him for an autograph before realizing something.

  “Uh, Jase—hey, uh, come over here for a minute.”

  You step away from Jackson and begin to whisper so he can’t hear you.

  “Do you know what’s about to happen?” you ask in a soft voice.

  “Of course I do! The Battle of Chancellorsville.”

  “You can’t change history. What do you think you’re doing?”

  Jase laughs. “Exactly what you think I’m doing.”

  “And how’d you get that costume?”

 
“It’s real, and that’s really Stonewall Jackson.”

  “Then that means it’s really 1863!”

  “Yes, it does,” Jase says. “And I think I’m gonna help General Jackson here.”

  Somehow time travel has made Jase’s brain shrink.

  “You do know that you can’t rewrite the past,” you tell him. “I mean—I know you’re all into the Confederate flag and all that, but a lot of good things happened when the South lost.”

  Jase clearly doesn’t want to listen. He’s caught up in the moment.

  You have to make a decision—and fast. The future as you know it might be forever changed.

  Why didn’t I study history a little better?

  Do you keep the general in your possession for the moment and hope you can figure out a plan to ditch him later? Go here.

  Do you force Jase to let Stonewall Jackson go, then make him get back in the time machine with you? Go here.

  1990

  YOU DECIDE TO KEEP SEARCHING FOR JOHN LUKE.

  The song changes to “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and you see a kid on the dance floor rocking out while his mullet hairstyle rocks with him. You shake your head. You know you had the same style for quite a while.

  Wait, maybe I still had the mullet back in 1990!

  You scan the crowd of a hundred students dancing and look for someone not dressed up. But John Luke is nowhere to be found. You do see your old gym teacher and the chemistry teacher. You wonder if they’re going to recognize you.

  Of course they won’t.

  An adult chaperone—possibly someone’s mother—approaches you, and you say you’re a relative of the Robertson boys. The chaperone nods at your explanation but makes it clear she’s going to be keeping a careful watch on you.

  Where would John Luke be right now?

  You walk the perimeter of the gym, the lights dimmed to add mood to the dance floor. You’re about to make it around the entire floor when you see a figure you haven’t thought of for years.