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AN ODD SOUND GREETED Bill as he began to come to. His first thought was that he was dreaming...dreaming he was awake and that the noise was part of that dream, or some hallucinogenic side effect of time travel. He opened his eyes fully, then immediately closed them again, as the full burst of light caused his pupils to dilate too rapidly. He could feel the heat of the sun on his arm and began to take note of the aching pain in his legs and the small of his back. He wasn’t dreaming, he thought, and opened his eyes again, more slowly this time, allowing his sight to adjust to the light of morning.
Then the noise again. The sound came intermittently and then together, as though a choir director had singled out a voice or two and then had the whole choir join in.
Fully awake, his brain clicked in and gave the sound an identity. He jumped up.
Baying.
All around him sheep stood huddled in groups, baying at him. Bill took a cautious step toward the herd, concerned that there might have been a wolf or coyote nearby. The sheep made no attempt to turn and run from him, or from any looming predator. Instead they stood their ground, watching him. In the distance, just beyond the flock of sheep, he could see what looked like a well. It was just twenty or thirty yards off, but the sheep were nowhere near it. They stood off to either side and along...Bill froze.
Directly in front of him, stretching for many yards, was, what he could only think of as, an impact zone. His senses alerted, he turned slowly, looking beyond the sheep, taking in the whole area. Bits and pieces of the foil lay scattered all around. Foil that Bill immediately recognized as the same foil that had once lined the manmade ravine dug around the small metal building. Or more precisely—the capsule that transported him into time. A slight breeze kicked up and that same foil that had at one time, held back the water from the Great Salt Lake, and conducted the electromagnetic power from the generators to and through the metal building, now blew in the slight breeze. Like confetti after a parade had passed, Bill thought. The foil stuck to the brush and gathered in piles pushed up by the wind, and against the rocks and large chunks of metal that lay tossed about. They looked as though they had been torn, ripped in pieces and then bent into odd angles by some delusionary artist, creating an apocalyptic landscape.
Bill took a few steps toward the impact zone, picked up a piece of the metal and examined it. It was lighter than he had expected. Smooth and even to the touch, where it had been ripped and torn by the impact. He ran a finger cautiously on the perimeter of the metal; it too remained smooth, despite its jagged edge. It took only a moment more before he placed the origins of the metal. Like the foil, the metal pieces had come from the small brown, camouflaged building that he, Lynda and Commander Kupovits had been in. The same building that Einstein and Von Braun, along with teams of scientists, had developed to serve as a time capsule. The metal was a combination of iron, copper, gold and platinum mixed in a perfect amalgamation that would conduct electromagnetic energy, while transporting and protecting the occupants. Einstein and Von Braun had worked together with a select team that could be trusted, or blackmailed, as in Von Braun’s case, into secrecy. It was evident, since the Eldridge disaster, that steel and iron were not the correct conductors for the massive amounts of electromagnetic energy that was required to boost the ship or capsule through time. Steel and iron too easily failed. Their molecular structure—under the tremendous pressures of time and energy—warped and melded together or disintegrated. The four metals of time, as Einstein dubbed it, were supposed to solve the problems incurred by the Eldridge and Project Rainbow. That did not appear to happen, Bill thought, as he tossed the piece of metal to the ground.
He started off toward the circular metal well, calling out to Lynda and the commander. His voice was rough, dry, and he could not produce the volume he thought he needed. After a futile attempt, he abandoned the idea. Bill covered his eyes, using one hand as a visor, and scanned the horizon. There was nothing in the distance, except more horizon and more desert. He took another step toward the well. Thirst and survival were fast becoming his main concern. He could do without food, but without water, in the dry heat of the desert, he knew he wouldn’t last long.
He took another step and winced in pain as a sharp rock cut into his foot. That’s when he noticed he was barefoot. His eyes followed his body from his feet up to the calves of his legs, and to the torn strips of cloth that covered him. The worn rags he had found tangled in the brush of Golgotha, still clung to him. If he had had any doubt about Golgotha and the crucifixion being a real or a dream, it disappeared in a flash of stark reality.
The sheep began to bay again, this time louder. Their voices joined together in a song of unison. Their attention turned to the distance, opposite Bill.
Bill turned quickly, peering off in the same direction as the sheep. Two people mounted on horseback were slowly approaching him. They were still far off, but Bill thought he could make out one figure as a man, and the other, a child. He started to bring both of his hands up to his mouth to cup it and channel his voice in their direction, when he noticed that one hand was empty. He had used it to shield his eyes only a moment ago, but the other hand remained clenched. He moved his arm up, bringing his hand closer to his face, and willed the clenched had to open. Slowly, Bill’s fingers splayed back, revealing his palm and the contents of his hand. What he saw there caused him to suck in his breath so quickly, that his lungs threatened to burst.
Bill immediately turned to run back to the spot by the rocks and the small bump in the desert landscape that he had just moved from. But he stopped dead in his tracks. Lynda and Commander Kupovits’ bodies lay atop the rocks, just above the spot where he had been when he came to. Even from this distance, Bill could see that the bodies were contorted. The muscles in their faces had been stretched and pulled, looking much like the painting of The Scream by the Norwegian painter, Edward Munch, which he had seen once on a slide in a required undergraduate course. He had found the painting to be an odd mix of emotion and texture. Even then, he had wanted to look away, but the painting would not allow him to. Just as now, the grotesque faces of Lynda and Commander Kupovits stretched into a silent scream, with eyes wide open, looking skyward and mouths agape, would not allow his eyes or his thoughts to drift away.
There was but one thought, and one thought only, that repeated over and over in Bill’s mind, without regard for the insanity it was nearly causing him. If he had just traveled back in time and born witness to the crucifixion of Christ...
Where had they gone?
And, what had they seen?