Oct. 6, 2008
My despised day shift finally ended, and I left work in haste. The days at the grocery store dragged like hell, and I had to deal with bitchy customers and disgruntled coworkers all day long. Just give me straight night shifts, and I’m good. But those days were long gone, thanks to the economic shit sandwich the country—hell, the whole world—was enduring. Even though I spent a couple hours building Halloween displays, which at least kept me away from the register for a while, the shift still dragged.
My timelines were getting scrambled in my Swiss-cheese memory. I couldn’t help but feel as though I’d gotten fired recently, perhaps more than once, yet I still had a job. I suspected I must’ve gone back and fixed that. For some reason, I also thought I hadn’t minded the day shifts so much back during the summertime, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe the customers were more tolerable, or I had a better group of coworkers on shift with me. I wasn’t sure, but something seemed to be missing. Not knowing what it was aggravated me. Due to necessity after my traumatic brain injury, I had gotten pretty good about keeping notes of important things—dates, appointments, work schedules, and the like—but events in my personal life I’d never needed to record. Maybe I need to start.
The mystery was solved when recently I discovered I had a couple text messages on my phone from someone named Nell. Memories of her returned once I read them, and I felt stupid for having forgotten about the one person I’d actually liked in my original timeline.
More was contributing to my forgetfulness than just the battered lump of gray matter between my ears, it seemed. Leaping across various timelines was confusing as hell, and I suspected forgetting what had gone before was either the brain’s defense mechanism or perhaps simply the natural order of the universe asserting itself. Regardless, I became convinced humans simply weren’t meant to time travel.
For the past month, I’d blown off the Mike situation, though I had developed a theory about how I might do something about that. I needed to go back much earlier and try to guide him into a career change. His dad was an ex-military officer, so he had been raised in a disciplined household since an early age and gravitated toward that type of rigid environment, the polar opposite of me, whose life had been nebulously structured at best, chaotic at worst. Mike even had an older brother who was already in the army by the time I met him. Hence, Mike had always been interested in the military, eventually enlisting after 9/11, but fortune sure didn’t seem to be on his side. I couldn’t help but feel this was like the Final Destination movies, where Death was out to get Mike no matter what.
Rather than getting in my rust-bucket truck and driving home right away after work, I felt like a walk. Adding insult to injury, a jug of vinegar had leaked on my counter during my shift, and no matter how well I cleaned it, the smell endured until it gave me a headache. Some fresh air was just what the doctor ordered.
The evening was crisp and cool and blessedly free of vinegar fumes. Just walking across the parking lot cleared my head and refreshed me. I crossed Main Street at the crosswalk then took a left, wincing as my hip and back made their protests known. I hoped a short walk would work the kinks out.
I passed the Obama campaign headquarters, still a hive of activity even at five o’clock in the evening, with the election right around the corner. I continued past the post office and Karen’s Kountry Eatery, where Mom had worked at some point. The desolate hulk of the former Blockbuster Video across the street, closed for a couple years now, caused a momentary pang of nostalgia. Beside it were both a used bookstore and a music store. I couldn’t help but wonder if those two would last or if the progression of technology would be the end of them as well. I had spent a good portion of my childhood, as well as my meager funds, in those three establishments.
The path I took on my right led to a small, peaceful park. Most of the leaves had fallen, which gave the normally green and shady space an unusual starkness. Ahead lay a decent-sized pond encircled by a gravel path and some park benches.
The sun was just about to sink below the mountain, and my favorite time, twilight, would be upon Pinehaven in another ten or fifteen minutes. The air was becoming chilly, reminding me that snow and ski season and even Christmas would be here before I knew it.
How time flies. I smiled to myself at the implication.
Nobody was around, which was exactly what I was hoping. The pathways were clear, but a bit of snow remained in the shady areas from the year’s first snowfall a few days earlier. A few ducks were paddling about in the water, probably preparing for their winter migration to whatever warmer climes they frequented.
“Picturesque, isn’t it?”
I nearly jumped out of my shoes at the unexpected voice. I’d known for certain that I was alone, and out of nowhere this gravelly male voice sounded behind me. My pulse raced as I slowly turned, suddenly dreading whom I might find.
A tall, lean man was sitting on a park bench fifteen feet away as casually as if he’d been there for the past hour. He slouched with his elbows propped on the back of the bench, legs extended straight out and crossed at the ankles. The man’s rugged features brought to mind an Old West gunslinger with a few days’ growth of beard and pale-blue eyes. The only thing missing was a tan—this man was as pale as I was. He looked out of place with his dark fedora and a leather coat over a black shirt and jeans tucked into boots.
I cleared my throat and tried to act as if he hadn’t startled the hell out of me. “Uh, yeah. Sure is nice.”
Jason, I’m detecting high levels of tachyon emissions!
I started again when Tina’s warning blared directly in my mind. I had no clue what exactly she was referring to, yet the implication was clear.
This man could only be the marshal.
“A little jumpy there, son?” He regarded me with some amusement, his faded gunslinger eyes boring holes right through me. This guy definitely had the cop-eye thing going on—that intense gaze that could pin someone in place and see right through any bullshit.
My guts went cold as our eyes locked, but the marshal made no threatening moves. He was more Clint Eastwood than Arnold Schwarzenegger, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t whip out a gun and blow me away without provocation.
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked, my throat suddenly dry.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Any particular reason I should?”
“Um, no. But your property… I didn’t steal it. I just found it on the ground, dropped by that dead guy.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was as dry as a desert. “And?” I croaked.
His lined face crinkled as he smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And I’ll be wanting it back… eventually.”
“Eventually… What does that mean?”
The marshal sighed and sat up straighter, looking me in the eye. “What it means, Jason James Hurd, born 13 April 1980 to Kevin and Charlotte Hurd and originally deceased by manner of suicide on 30 August 2008, is that I’m rather enjoying life in your timeline at the moment. And yes, I’ve been aware of you since the moment you picked up the device.”
Tina had been right—this guy knew everything about me. “Y-you were there when I found it?” I vaguely remembered the uneasy feeling as if someone were watching me, but I had chalked it up to the weirdness of the situation, coupled with the intoxicating substances in my bloodstream.
“I was. You know, time travel is a helluva thing—it gives you the ability to pretty much arrive whenever you like. For instance, I could enjoy living here in your timeline for five years if I wanted, then reclaim the device and return before I even left, if I so desired. The only price would be the years of my own life.” He smiled again. “And what are those years worth if you fail to actually live them?”
“Oh.” I stood there like a wide-eyed idiot as the implications sank in. “So I can still use this?” I pointed at my forearm though I was convinced the counter was another hologram only visible to myself.
He shrugged. “Do what you will, but take care to avoid any significant disruptions in this timeline. If I discover you creating major resonances that cause a destructive cascade throughout the continuum—and I’m not talking about the minor ripples you’ve created thus far—then I’ll be forced to put an end to it.”
Meaning he’ll put an end to me. I tried not to dwell on that thought. “But how will you know?”
“I’ll know.”
I swallowed hard at his absolute confidence… and his implicit threat. Why the hell is he letting me off the hook?
“Is your world really so bad in 2244?” my mouth asked before my brain could rein it in.
The marshal’s face tightened. “Yes, son, it is very bad. In my timeline, the Earth’s ecosystem collapsed decades before I was even born, due to the failure of past generations—the planet’s stewards—to prevent or even rectify the situation. As a result of centuries of reckless irresponsibility, Earth’s climate became catastrophically and irrevocably changed. Half the world’s species of animals and plants became extinct. Extreme famine, lack of potable water, and disease outbreaks resulted, decimating the world’s population. Seasonal temperature swings of two hundred or more degrees are routine occurrences. Violent, unpredictable storms make surface expeditions a mortal gamble. So yes, it’s pretty goddamn bad.”
“Shit,” I said sagely.
The marshal gave a half smile. “Many of us have never been outside the enclaves at all. In my fifty-five years of life, this is the first time I’ve been able to breathe fresh, nonrecirculated air and see both animal and plant species in their native habitats with my own eyes. Hence my somewhat selfish enjoyment of your timeline. Sometimes the simple pleasures in life are those treasured most.”
He frowned then and pulled a flat object from his pocket, a little larger than an iPhone, a transparent piece of plastic or crystal or something. I could just make out glowing text spooling across it, but it was backwards, so I couldn’t read it.
“Well, I must deal with another anomaly Arrenson created. Enjoy your time, Mr. Hurd.” The marshal got to his feet and glanced at his forearm, where I imagined his counter was glowing. He turned away then paused. “That girl you saved… She’s someone important to you?”
I stared at him dumbly for a moment, confused as to whom he meant.
“Nell McClain,” he said. “Historically, she disappeared without a trace on 29 August 2008, and her remains were later discovered in 2015, according to the Record.”
His speaking her name was like lighting a flare in the dark, barren cavern of my memory. In my present timeline, I had just seen Nell barely a month earlier, but unless I fought to remember her, like rereading those text messages, she faded like a ghost, as did most other details from my original timeline. The handful of jumps I’d taken and my already bad memory were really screwing with my head.
“Yes, Nell is important to me,” I finally replied. As the words left my mouth, I realized they were true.
The marshal nodded as if that confirmed some suspicion. A moment later, the air around him seemed to ripple briefly, and he simply vanished.
I finally allowed myself to relax and went over and sat down heavily on the bench recently vacated by the marshal. I was suddenly feeling a bit unsteady on my feet. Not only had he not been particularly interested in recovering his device, but he was willing to allow me to continue doing what I was doing, bumbling and inefficient as my efforts may have been.
Guess that means I need to quit screwing around. I have to come up with a plan, do some research, and then do what I need to do before the marshal loses his fascination with this world.
I sat there until full dark, lost in my thoughts. When I got up, I nearly fell when my bad leg cramped up hard and a sharp spasm of pain raced up my back.
“Son of a bitch! I’ve got to take care of these old injuries before anything else.”