Flux

by Jeremy Robinson

  Tales of Pete Boone, said to be the great, great, great grandfather of Black Creek’s most reclusive hermit, Bear Boone, were usually humorous and full of drunken antics. Murder had never been part of the lore, but clearly, the man has no qualms about taking a life.

  Cassie catches my eyes, questioning what I’m doing with a stare.

  “None of these people are our enemies,” I whisper. “I don’t want to kill anyone we don’t have to.”

  She motions to Chafin’s body. “He murdered him without warning. Without cause.”

  I offer a slow nod, and say, “Far as I know, there’s only two people in these woods that haven’t killed anyone.”

  She doesn’t need to ask who I’m talking about. I doubt the thought of my child-self and my father is too far from the forefront of her mind.

  “I’m here on business,” I say. “From North Carolina. Been sent looking for the best whiskey in the south. Something not yet on the market. People I work for are fixin’ to bottle and market what I bring ’em. Along the way, I’ve heard tell that your corn whiskey is the finest.”

  There’s a silent moment. Then he says, “Apple brandy ain’t half bad, neither.”

  “Then can we talk business? Or are we gonna trade bullets?”

  “You sound like a man with ballocks,” Boone says. “Step on out. Let me have a gander at yah. Then I’ll decide.”

  “Don’t,” Cassie says. Her concern is legitimate. Boone could gun me down the moment I step out, but I don’t think he will. The man eventually made a small fortune from his bootlegging. Lost it all to gambling later in life—so my father says—but his ambitions were always grand. As long as he thinks my claims are legitimate, we shouldn’t have anything to worry about.

  I step out from behind the tree, handgun holstered, rifle aimed toward the ground. When I look up the mountain, the first thing I see is Boone’s half-toothed grin. The second is the ten men flanking him on either side, all of them armed with revolvers.

  “Well, shit,” Boone says, and then he turns to the man beside him. “What are the odds we’d find another man wearing fancy clothes?” He squints at me. “You kinda look like him, too.”

  13

  My backup plan, if my dealings with Boone went wrong, was to fire a few shots over his head and make a quick escape downhill. Despite this going very wrong, I stay rooted in place. Boone said he’d already captured a man whose clothing resembled my own, which I take to mean modern, and he looks like me. That can be only one person. But even if the man has my father, he made no mention of my younger self.

  “Never mind what I’m wearing,” I say, projecting my father’s confidence. “You want to talk business or not?”

  My stalwart focus on striking a deal and forced indifference to his revelation, not to mention the gaggle of armed men, broadens his smile.

  “All right, all right.” He waves me up. “But I can’t promise things are gonna end well if I don’t like what you have to offer.”

  “Owen,” Cassie whispers. “These aren’t good people.”

  “I’m sure people have said that about me a time or two,” I say. “I can handle Boone, and I need to know if the man has my father.”

  A long sigh deflates her head into a slow nod.

  Boone and his men let out a chuckle, and I don’t have to ask why. From their perspective, I’m debating with the help.

  “Well, you let us know when you’re done consultin’ with your wet nurse. We’ll just wait right here. Ain’t got nothing better to do.” Boone leans against a tree, chewing on a wad of tobacco. His good humor belies a growing impatience.

  “Apologies,” I say. “Our business isn’t for the likes of these two. Just leaving them with instructions.”

  “To divulge the location of my operation should you not return, I suspect,” Boone says.

  I just smile and turn back to Cassie and Levi, who have stepped out from behind cover and approached me. “Wait as long as you can. If I’m not back inside thirty minutes, don’t bother coming for me. If time changes again…” I take a moment to get my bearings. “…stay put. I’ll find you.”

  “Stay put with the dead bodies attracting predators,” Levi says. “Solid plan. How about we meet a few hundred feet away in the direction of your choice.”

  Makes sense. “Think you can get back to where the road should be?”

  Cassie and Levi respond in unison. “Yes.” Cassie shoots Levi a look to remind him who’s next in the line of command and then replies again, this time on her own. “I can.”

  “You won’t mind if some of my men wait with your people,” Boone says, putting another monkey wrench in my evolving plan.

  “Wouldn’t want them divulging the location of your operation,” I say, doing my best to sound indifferent to my friends’ fate.

  “No,” he says, all trace of humor missing. “We wouldn’t.”

  I hand my pilfered sniper rifle to Levi. I’m not sure how good a shot he is, but if he grew up hunting with his pa, he knows how to use it. “Only if it’s necessary.”

  Levi gives a nod and backs off like I’ve dismissed him.

  “Take care of the kid,” I tell Cassie. “I’m kind of responsible for him.”

  “Good luck,” she says. “With your father.”

  “Thanks.” When she smiles at me, and I wonder if I’ll ever see her again, it takes a lot of will power to not hug her goodbye.

  She breaks the spell by saying, a bit too loudly, “Yes, massa. I will, massa.”

  I roll my eyes and tamp down my smile as I turn to face Boone and his men. I give a nod to the four gnarly looking bootleggers headed downhill to keep an eye on Cassie and Levi. They don’t return the courtesy as I walk past them. They do eye me though, looking me over like I’m an enigma. Given their soiled state, along with the waft of earthy stank rolling off them, I suppose my cleanliness on its own is out of place. My jacket, taken from one of Chafin’s men, isn’t exactly spotless, but my face is clean and my beard is trimmed, matching the high and tight haircut I’ve kept since my days in the service.

  Boone holds his ground as I approach. He spits a wad of tobacco on the ground between us to tell me I’ve gone far enough. He looks me up and down, souring at the sight of me. He twists his lips around, two slugs wrestling, then makes a popping sound with them. “Tell me ’bout this man you work for.”

  “James Sig Sauer,” I say, when I notice him eyeing my weapon. “His father was a plantation owner, back when such things were profitable. When he inherited the business, Mr. Sauer started diversifying. First in fine weaponry. Now he’s looking to expand.”

  “Into the liquor business.”

  “As previously discussed,” I say. “Yes.” I motion to the holstered handgun. “If your whiskey is as good as our firearms, I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

  He motions to the gun. I’ve piqued his interest. “May I?”

  I point at his men, letting my finger trace a slow line across each and every one of them. “You boys try not to blink.”

  I draw the weapon slowly, holding it up for them to see. In this time, the most advanced handgun they’d have seen was a six-shooter revolver. It’s the weapon of gun slinging legends, but in a fight, it can’t compete with the P220.

  “Rounds are kept in a magazine,” I say, ejecting it and holding it out for them to see the packed in bullets. “Ten rounds total.”

  I rack the slide, ejecting the chambered round and catching it. I pinch the round between two fingers, letting them see it for a moment before slapping it back in the gun. “Reloading is quick.” I eject the magazine again, reach down to my belt where my last replacement waits to be used. I slap the magazine back in, chamber a round and aim it toward one of the men, who flinches back, stumbles, and falls over himself.

  The rest of the men aim their weapons at me, but Boone waves at them to stand down when I lower my gun. He snaps twice and points to the pistol. I spin it around and hand it to him.

  When he feels
the weight of it in his hands, his eyes widen. “Damnation, that feels good.” He looks down the sights. “How’s the power?”

  “It’s what I like to call a ‘one and done’ gun.” Inwardly, I cringe at the rhyme, but it sounds like the kind of thing a salesman might say.

  “One what?” Boone asks.

  “Bullet.”

  He smiles wide and I see more gaps than teeth. “I like that. One and done.” He holds the gun up and chuckles. “And lookee there. Sig Sauer. He put his name on all his guns?”

  “Most of the time,” I say, “but customization is possible. For his business partners.”

  “Well, all right then.” He turns the gun around and hands it back. “I think we should talk.” Fingers to his lips, he lets out a shrill whistle, getting the attention of the men now standing near Cassie and Levi. “We good. Keep an eye on them, nothing more. Understood?”

  The men nod, and Boone grins at me. “Your colored servant is a real cherry, but my men won’t try nothing without my say so, no matter how pent up they might be.”

  “Appreciate that,” I say, wrestling with the idea of slugging Boone and gunning the lot of them down. “Good help is hard to come by.”

  “Uh-huh,” Boone says, and he strikes out through the snow, backtracking through the prints he and his men made before coming across us. Given the spacing between the prints, they were running, no doubt drawn to Arthur’s screams.

  “It ain’t much farther,” Boone says, after ten minutes of walking around the mountain.

  “How big is your operation?” I ask.

  “Big enough, but there is room for growth.”

  “How would you feel about relocating, should Mr. Sauer request it?”

  “The land of milk and honey is filled with silk and money.” He lets out a long hoot of a laugh and slaps the side of his leg. “You ain’t the only one who can rhyme.”

  My laugh is phony, but convincing enough that Boone keeps his legs, and our conversation, moving along. “I’ll go where the cash is, plain and simple.”

  “A man after Mr. Sauer’s heart,” I tell him.

  The trees part and we enter a clearing full of small shacks, smoldering fires, and six homemade pot stills. At the center of it all is a large turnkey distillery, no doubt purchased with Boone’s illicit earnings. A collection of women, as dirty and rough around the edges as the men, tends to the camp. They’re working the stills, stoking the fires, preparing a meal, and chewing more tobacco than the men.

  It’s impressive, and I should be expressing my awe at the camp, and the strong scent of whiskey wafting in the air. But I don’t. I can’t. My full attention resides on the man bound and gagged on the far side of the camp. He’s seated on a log, shivering in a T-shirt.

  On the surface, he does look like me, if you ignore the tan skin. His pants are modern—black cargo instead of blue jeans. He sports the same kind of high and tight hair. The same deep forehead creases of someone who has seen action before. And he’s fit—the kind of fit that only the self-absorbed and men of action are able to maintain.

  What he’s not, is my father.

  “You know him?” Boone asks, noting my attention on the man.

  I walk through the camp like I’m supposed to be there, stopping in front of the stranger from my time. “I don’t know his name, but I know who he is, if that makes any sense.”

  “Not sure that it does.” Boone crosses his arms, waiting for an explanation.

  “I’ve been dogged during my journey from the south, by men of all sorts. Thieves. Lawmen. Guns for hire. Fended them all off. Like those dead fellas you saw in the woods. But the way they’ve been coming at me, trying to suppress my business—our business—has led me to believe that the federal government is working against my endeavors.”

  I look up to Boone. “He said a word yet?”

  Boone shakes his head. “Not a lick.”

  I look the man in the eyes. “I reckon if he did, you’d hear a thick Yankee accent.” Then to Boone. “How did you come by him?”

  “One of my men found him passed out a bit farther uphill. Looks like he took a whack to the head.”

  He’s right about that. The stranger has an egg on his forehead, stained red with blood, which someone was kind enough to wipe away.

  “Why don’t you just give us a demonstration,” Boone says. “Show us what that gun of yours can really do.”

  “As much as I’d like to, I’d prefer to take this man alive and get what I can from him. I’m sure Mr. Sauer would like to meet the man sent to disrupt his business.”

  Boone has a good chuckle. “I’m sure he would.”

  “You understand what’s happening right now?” I ask the bound man. “You understand the position you’re in?”

  He stares up at me, bright blue eyes unflinching. He knows the deal. Knows what I’m really asking him, one man from the future to another. Then he nods.

  I shove a finger between his cheek and the gag, yanking it free.

  “I’m not telling you nothing,” he says, and I can’t tell if his accent is supposed to be New York or Boston. Either way, it’s shit, but I’m pretty sure that in the days before radio and TV, none of these men have heard an authentic accent from either place.

  “You will,” I tell him. Then I club him with the butt of my gun, knocking him unconscious. This man might not be my father, but I think he might have some answers. A group of people broke into Synergy and blew up my truck before everything went to hell, and I’m willing to bet this guy was one of them. One way or another, he’s coming with me.

  I stand up, holstering my weapon. “Now then,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “I’ll be needing a taste of your finest, and a full bottle for Mr. Sauer to taste for himself.”

  Boone’s grin is as decayed as it is greedy. He waves for me to follow and then steps into a shack with three walls. Inside are several large barrels and an assortment of full bottles. He sorts through the bottles, clinking them about as he looks for the right one. “Ahh,” he says. “Nothing can knock a man off his feet quicker than this batch.”

  When I step into the shack behind him, he turns around, bottle in hand. But he doesn’t hand it to me. He swings it at my head, shattering the hard glass against my skull and dropping me to the ground. The last thing I hear is Boone and his men cackling with laughter.

  14

  I’m cold. My head hurts. I can smell blood—mine—mixed with the odors of burning wood and distilling alcohol. I fight against shivering, a sure sign of being conscious. The sharp sting on my backside reveals I’m seated in snow, hands bound behind my back, head lolled toward the ground. There are voices: men and women, but none close enough to hear clearly, and not nearly enough to suggest Boone and his men are still here.

  “They’ve gone after your friends.” The voice comes from my right, and I have little doubt it’s the man I clubbed. The fake accent is gone, replaced by one that sounds more Southwestern, though it’s hard to say. When I don’t respond he says, “I know you’re awake. We’ve both been taught the same tricks. You flinched when you came to.”

  Definitely ex-military. Probably special forces.

  “Why are you here?” I ask without lifting my head or opening my eyes.

  “You really want to do this now?”

  “You have someplace else to be?”

  “We both do,” he says, revealing his concern for the people with whom he broke into Synergy, and as near as I can tell, with whom he kicked off this unholy mess. “And I nearly had my hands free before you decided to pistol whip me.”

  “I had someplace to be before you blew up my truck.”

  He says nothing, which is admission of guilt enough for me.

  “You want the truth?” he asks.

  “Why would I want anything else?”

  He sighs. “You’ve gone through life thinking you’re on the side of angels. You fight other people’s wars. You kill who needs killing. You like to think you don’t have a taste for it,
but here you are, carrying a gun and wearing a uniform that gives you a license to kill in the right circumstances.”

  “Like when someone blows up my truck.”

  “You’re missing the point,” he says. “You’re a soldier. A good soldier. You don’t question your orders, the mission, or the people in charge. You’re loyal to a fault, and your loyalty is misplaced.”

  He’s attempting to paint himself as the good guy, like corporate espionage can be justified. “Not sure how that’s any different from being a soldier of fortune,” I say, guessing that he’s a mercenary.

  “Only one of us is paid to be here,” he says. “And it would take a lot more than 75k a year with benefits to compromise my integrity.”

  If the man knows my salary, he likely knows everything else there is to know about me. In that regard, he has me at a disadvantage. “Then what are you supposed to be?”

  “To folks in the United States, the minutemen, who fended off Britain’s armies using guerilla tactics, are legendary heroes. You were a Raider. You understand what they did and how they did it better than most. You respect it. Emulate it. Improve upon it. If we were a hundred years further back in time, you’d be fighting right alongside them. Without the minutemen, the freedom we enjoy wouldn’t have been possible. I think we can both agree on that.”

  I say nothing. He knows enough about me that I don’t need to.

  “But to the British, they were something else. The minutemen fought without honor, without respect for the code of war. They struck at random. Caused chaos. Struck fear in all those loyal to the crown.”

  “So you’re a terrorist.”

  “Only if you’re a Redcoat. It’s a matter of perspective. The people you work for—with big fucking blinders on—are not worth protecting.”

  I agree with his theory, but not necessarily with his conclusions. While it’s true that I don’t know the exact nature of Synergy’s research, I know they’ve done right by me and my community, and they will continue to do so…

  As long as we fill a need, I think.