FLUX
By Jeremy Robinson
Description:
Lost in time, the town of Black Creek, Kentucky becomes home to temporal layers of people, creatures, and monsters from disparate eras. Journey beyond the time of humanity and witness the rewriting of mankind’s genesis.
For Owen McCoy, a typical day on the job as head of security for Synergy, a research company conducting mysterious experiments, is boring at best. And that’s the way he likes it. Patrolling the Appalachian mountainside, where his now deceased father taught him how to hunt, is relaxing and connects him to the past.
But today is not a typical day on the job. It begins with asking a thief to join him for breakfast. Seeking to set the young man on a better path, Owen invites him to walk the perimeter with him and consider a more honest living. Before their patrol can begin, they discover evidence that the facility has been breached. When Owen’s truck explodes, he’s confused, but ready for whatever might come his way.
At least, he thinks he is.
A wave of light-bending energy—the Flux—rolls down the mountainside, transporting Owen, and everyone in the nearby town of Black Creek, to October 14, 1985, the day before his father died. Two hours later, the second Flux hits, and then a third, and a fourth, each time collecting Black Creek residents from various times. They’re carried through eras filled with wild animals, monsters of myth, and ancient beasts…and then beyond.
Joined by a ragtag group of temporal stowaways, including family members, Owen fights to restore order, stop the Flux, and return home, facing off against futuristic tech, primal killers, and the fear of losing his father…again.
International bestselling author of The Others and Infinite, Jeremy Robinson combines science, action, and strong characters to create an ever-changing landscape that explores the past, the human condition, and the lengths people will go to save those they love.
FLUX
Jeremy Robinson
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Table of Contents
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Epilogue
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO by JEREMY ROBINSON
For Cassie.
Now you can get a T-shirt.
1
“Ain’t gonna ask again.” The gun in his hand—a rusted piece of junk from a time before his birth—is more likely to explode in his face than put a bullet through mine. Even if it did work, his hand is so unsteady that the first bullet would likely miss, and anything fired after that would be thrown off by the weapon’s recoil.
He digs a tan, plastic grocery bag from his pocket and thrashes it about until air slides inside and billows it open. “Where’re your drugs at?”
I cut through the fried egg yoke on my breakfast plate, letting the yellow spill out. It’s thick and viscous, like blood. The kid swallows. He doesn’t have the nerve to shoot me, but he’s working on it.
“How old are you?” I ask, smearing a chunk of egg through yolk and popping it in my mouth. When he doesn’t answer, I add, “Secret to a good egg is simple seasoning. Salt, pepper, onion powder, and a pinch of chili powder. Can you smell it?”
I take a deep breath through my nose and watch the kid do the same. His ski mask hides his face, but his rising chest and pursing lips are obvious tells. As hungry as he might be for oxy, or some other pharmaceutical, his belly is growling, too.
When I carve into my syrup-drenched waffle, he all but licks his lips.
“Here’s the deal,” I tell him, taking a bite of waffle. “The half-stache framing your lips says you’re pushing eighteen, maybe there already. You pull that trigger, you’ll spend the rest of your life in a jail cell. If you’re thinking no one will catch you, take a look at your hands. You’re not wearing gloves. How many surfaces have you touched since letting yourself through my door? You haven’t been keeping track. I have, and short of burning the place down, you’re going to be easy to ID.”
The kid’s buying my bullshit, homegrown psy-ops, growing even more nervous as he starts to picture his life in a jail cell. But he’s still got a finger wrapped around that trigger.
“Here’s what I know. You’re local, and like most people in Black Creek, your family has fallen on hard times. Father lost his job at the mine, maybe a few years back. Mom is overwhelmed by a few kids. You do your best to help out, but someone—not you, your skin, teeth, and eyes look good—is taking comfort in drugs. But the doctor won’t prescribe more, money’s tight, and people are desperate. What’d they offer you? Or did they threaten you?”
The kid’s silence confirms my theory, but doesn’t tell me whether or not he’s here against his will. I give him a once over. He’s skinny, but tall and strong. Built like an athlete. “Still in school,” I guess. “So, you’re getting at least one meal a day. What’s your sport? Football?”
His eyes widen.
“You strike me as a quarterback. Means you’re more than just a heavy hitter. Means you’ve got a head on your shoulders. Means you can make the tough calls under pressure. So I’m going to give you a way out, and the choice you make will affect your life from this point forward. You hearing me?”
His nod is subtle, but it gives me hope.
“You can pull that trigger, blow my brains across my kitchen cabinets, and rummage through my house for drugs that aren’t here. After that, you’ll spend a few days crying your eyes out, wondering when the police will come for you. When they do, you’ll either eat a bullet or spend the rest of your days regretting the choice you made at this very moment.”
I let that scenario sink in for a moment, then say, “Or you can get that food I fixed for you—” I motion to the plate on the counter behind him. It holds three fried eggs, two waffles, and three sausages. When he looks, I could tackle and disarm him in seconds, but if I make the choice for him, he’ll be in someone else’s kitchen before the week’s end. “—join me, and talk this mess out like a couple of good neighbors.”
When he hesitates, I add, “That’s the way Jesus would want things done, wouldn’t you say? Love your neighbor.”
Southern Kentucky Appalachia is steeped in poverty, addiction, coal, and religion. The first two tend to suffocate lessons learned in church, but there isn’t a young person in the region that can’t rattle off the basic teachings of Jesus or sing a hymn. I’m guessing that the young man who broke into my house looking for an easy score bowed his head and begged for mercy before he went to bed last night. Probably before he let himself into my house, too.
Lucky for him, I know that compassion can stop a war before it begins. And while I haven’t been to church since escaping Appalachia to join the military, I still re
member enough to speak the language.
“You won’t tell no one?” he asks. “Won’t call the cops?”
“I don’t make breakfast for people I want to send to jail. Far as I’m concerned, you haven’t done anything wrong yet. Door was unlocked. Breakfast was waiting. And you brought an antique firearm to show me, on account of me being a collector.”
“You ain’t shitting me?”
“Food’s still warm.”
After a moment of hesitation, he lowers the weapon, picks up the plate and sits down. Gun on the table, he tears into the food with the ruthless efficiency of desperate hunger. Egg and syrup drips over the ski mask, which must be getting moist with sweat. It’s ninety degrees out, and humid. He’s dressed for the weather in shorts and a dirty gray tank top, but his head must be sweltering.
“You can take the mask off, Levi.” I’m guessing at his identity, but everything I’ve observed about him, including the fact that he walked here, narrows the possibilities to a few families, only two of which have boys his age.
Yellow drips from his lip as he stares at me. “Shit.”
“You got nothing to worry about.”
He pulls off the mask, his appetite reined in by the shame of exposure.
“How’d you know?” he asks. “To fix a plate?”
“Took you three days to work up the nerve to walk through that door. First day, you left more tracks than a rutting hog. Second day, I watched you through the windows, skulking around in the woods. A lot of families in these parts claim to have some of Daniel Boone’s blood running through their veins. I’m guessing yours isn’t one of ’em.”
He laughs at that, and stuffs a whole sausage into his mouth. After a half-dozen chews, he swallows the meat and says, “Pa used to take me hunting when I was a kid. When there was more game. Strip mine chased them off, and then… Well, I haven’t been hunting in a good many years.”
“Still know your way around the forest?”
“Walked here, didn’t I?”
I grin. At heart, he strikes me as a good kid, under a lot of the wrong kind of pressure. “Who are you here for?”
“Grandma,” he says.
“Parents aren’t around?”
“Nope. I didn’t want to, you know? I’m aiming for a scholarship. But she ain’t long for this world and just wants to leave it without pain.”
“She’s not an addict?”
He shakes his head. “Curses the stuff mostly, but times are tough.”
I don’t have the guts to tell Levi that his Grandma probably wants the pills to end her life sooner than later. Despite breaking into my house, he strikes me as good people. That he’d risk prison to ease his grandmother’s pain supports the theory. He doesn’t flinch when I pull his revolver across the table, nor when I snap open the chamber. It’s empty.
He huffs a laugh. “I ain’t no criminal.”
I can’t help but laugh, partly with him, partly at him. Levi isn’t stupid, but he’s plenty naïve.
He leans back in the chair, belly full, looking satisfied.
“You good to go?” I ask.
“Go…”
“To work.” I stand up, revealing the gun holstered to my hip. My uniform is basic—jeans and a white collared shirt. A jacket sporting the name of the company I work for, and the word ‘Security,’ rounds out my uniform, but I tend to not wear it unless there’s frost on the ground. “Gets lonely in the woods, and I figure you owe me at least a day’s work. Then we can talk about how to help your grandma.”
He looks from the gun, to my eyes. Then he wipes his mouth and stands. “What’s the job?”
When I hold up my ID badge, he reads my name aloud: “Owen McCoy,” then his eyes shift to the company logo, and his smile falters. “Sonuva...”
2
“How can you work for them?” Levi asks, grasping the ‘oh shit’ handle in my pickup as we bounce down a water-worn, unmarked dirt road.
“Not sure you’re in the best position to be judging folks,” I say, steering over a rock that sends a shockwave through the passenger’s seat.
“You did that on purpose,” he complains.
“Just seeing if you’re paying attention.”
“I ain’t stupid,” he says, and I believe him, but his view of the world is narrow.
I avoid the next big rock and pothole. “You tell me. What’s Synergy done that’s so wrong?”
“Took jobs,” he says without missing a beat. “Displaced homes. Stole land. Made the poor even poorer, while they all get fat off our land.”
“You know how many locals applied for jobs at Synergy? They offered a bunch, you know?” I can tell by the look in his eyes that he didn’t know, that he’s just repeating the opinions of whoever spouted off about their own perceived injustices.
“Three locals applied for a few dozen positions,” I say. “Know how many of them were hired? All three, including me.”
“And what do they have you doing? Plunging their rich turds?”
“First of all, there’s no shame in cleaning for a living. You know that as well as anyone in these parts. A good paying job, no matter what it is, is hard to come by. If you can afford a home, a vehicle, and food—not to mention health insurance on account of that job—you’re doing better than most.”
He doesn’t outright agree with me, but he doesn’t argue either.
“And what world do you live in,” I say, “where a janitor carries a firearm?”
Again, his lack of answer is answer enough.
“As for your other complaints, Synergy didn’t displace anyone. The people who moved away were paid well for their land. Well enough to afford something somewhere else, which as near as I can figure is just about what half the folks between Harlan and Pikeville dream about. The mine was already shut down and not about to re-open. No matter what people in Washington say, coal isn’t coming back. Won’t be any need for it soon enough. Synergy brought money and jobs and received contempt and distrust. It’s not their fault people would rather wallow in drugs and alcohol than adapt to the modern world. As for the land, it was never yours. Your family might have worked in the mines, but they didn’t own them. Corporations own mines, and when the coal runs out or doesn’t get bought, they don’t feel bad about leaving. And before them, all of this—” I motion to the thick Kentucky woods framing the dirt road that starts a half mile from my house and leads us up a steep, mountain grade. “—belonged to the Cherokee. If anyone has cause to split hairs about what’s been done to this land, it’s them.”
The silence that follows my lecture is a good thing. Means he’s thinking it over rather than just rattling off more preprogrammed propaganda. When it’s clear his silence will have no end, I prod him with, “Nothing to say?”
“You got out,” he says. “Military, right? Why’d you come back?”
“Aside from the good paying job?”
“Nothing good comes out of Black Creek.” His head dips. Despite his talk of a scholarship, he doesn’t believe he’s got a future—here or anywhere else. His hopelessness has deep roots. “Can’t think of a good reason to be here, money or not.”
“I grew up in these woods, same as you, hunting with my father, same as you.”
“Your father turn out to be a drunk asshole with a toothless mistress?”
“He didn’t live long enough,” I say. “Died in the mines when I was twelve. My mother passed giving birth to me. Dad raised me on his own. That house you broke into, and most everything in it, belonged to him. And since the mines only take care of you when you’re digging, I spent the few years after his passing with my grandfather, who kicked off when I was in Basic.”
“Still,” he says, grinding anger between his teeth. “Your father didn’t force you to live out of a car.”
“You live in a car?” I ask, unable to hide my surprise. “Where’s your mother?”
“Left with my sisters,” he says. “Over in Big Stone Gap now, with her kin. They didn’t want me, on ac
count of how much I look like my devil father.”
“And your grandmother?”
“Can’t drive. Can barely walk. Basically trapped in the trailer with Pa and his lady.”
“They fight a lot?”
“Every night.”
“Your pa violent?”
“Not with Grandma.”
No wonder she wants some narcotics. Who wouldn’t? Before the conversation can continue, I slam on the brakes. As a plume of dust rolls past us, Levi leans back in his seat, eyes wide with surprise. “What the hell did you—”
I point two fingers at my eyes and then out the window. He looks, shaking his head. “I don’t see nothing.”
“Pretend you’re young again,” I tell him. “When your pa took you hunting, and wasn’t yet an asshole. What do you see?”
He pops the door open, slides out, and scans the tree line, hands on hips. “Here,” he says, pointing at the roadside brush, as I round the truck’s front end. “Brush is disturbed. Something came through here.”
“And?”
“And...” he says, scanning the area. His eyes land on the bright yellow No Trespassing sign. “Maybe they didn’t see it?” he asks.
I point back down the road. The signs, posted every fifteen feet, are impossible to miss and are filled with the kind of language that leaves little doubt about anything good coming from leaving the road.
“Maybe it was a deer?” he says. “Last I heard, they didn’t read too well.”
“Last I heard, they didn’t wear boots, either.” I point to the dirt road beneath Levi. What looks like a single set of boot prints is actually several sets layered atop each other. Whoever came through here did their best to make the tracks look like a single person, rather than a group. But the last of them, likely a woman based on the shoe size, left her prints inside the others. It’s subtle—Levi doesn’t spot it—but the tactic rules out the kid’s next theory.
“Maybe it’s just a hunter who doesn’t give a shit ’bout Synergy, or all the good they done for the community. Or were willing to do. Or whatever you all said.”
Flux Page 1
